Histories of confrontation, accusation, lies and argument roared into the forefront of Tallis’s brain. The room was so thick with mutual contempt it felt airless. “This is completely out of order,” Tallis fumed. “You’re my brother, for Chrissakes. You’re not allowed to interview me.” They’d taken him to the nearest police station, read him his rights, put him in a holding cell for an hour before dragging him back out again. Dan, whom he hadn’t clapped eyes on in over a year, gloated over every minute of it, just as he’d done when they’d been kids and Tallis had been taking a bollocking from their father. He looked well, Tallis thought, hair thick and shiny, eyes bright, and the pale grey jacket he was wearing fitted snugly and expensively across his broad shoulders. Power obviously suited him. “So let’s run through this again,” Dan said. “You hit the guy with the meat cleaver, almost severing his arm, and then took his gun and killed his partner. Nice double tap, by the way.”
