The house shone in the sunlight, white walls against the verdant Heswall Hills.

They left the driver in the vehicle, teasing him to come quick if they shouted for help. Laughing as they warned him to run away if the guy answered the door dressed as a clown with a bloody big axe.

JD looked up at the very large house.

'Gorgeous bloody gaff! What does he do for a living again, rob banks?'

Meredith crunched up the sweeping gravel drive, fishing for an answer. A confused look on his face.

'He's an. . . I. . . mean he's a. . . '

Total blank.

The name on the search warrant taunted his memory. He knew he'd been excited to find this guy linked to the murder, knew it was possible a major lead – but, quite simply, now had no idea why.

At least the Audi was there, solid, and memorable from the video footage. Registration matched the printout in Meredith's hand.

'How do you want to play it, Mike? Good cop – bad cop, bad cop – worse cop?'

John beamed at him, enjoying the baffled look on his friend's face.

Twenty-five years, man and boy, they'd served alongside each other, knew they could (and had) trust their lives to each other, but still, it was nice to see the guy squirm!

'How about we just ring the bloody doorbell and see what Mister. . . ' He cursed, checking his notes to recall the name, 'Mister Riding has to say for himself eh?'

They held up warrant cards and badges as the beautifully ornate oak door swung open.

'Morning, sir, Mister Riding, James Riding? I'm D/C Meredith, my colleague, John Davies, may we have a quick word, sir?'

The guy at the door looked a little worse for wear, whiskey fumes accompanied his answer.

'I'm James Riding, erm, Officers, yes, is there a problem?'

'Just a few routine enquiries,* he nodded towards the Audi, *Nice car, very nice!'

'Thanks, not had it long, is there something wrong with the car?'

'We'd like to ask you a few questions, as I say, Mr Riding, may we come in?'

'Actually Officer, I was just on my way out. . . '

'In pyjamas? Really? Mr Riding, we can do this here, or back at the station, your choice.'

'I'd really prefer not to, not at the moment, if you give me your number, I'll get my solicitor to arrange a. . . '

JD held up the Warrant. 'James Riding, we have a Warrant, a search warrant for these premises, and that car. We'd really appreciate your cooperation.'

'Search warrant? For what? I've done nothing wrong! I really think you should go away and come back when I'm. . . '

'James Riding, I'm arresting you on suspicion of being involved with the murder of Joanne Greene. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

Riding sat, head in hands, as the Officers began the search. Christ, they even took the smashed laptop and the whiskey-stained notebooks!

Riding could do nothing as the items were bagged and tagged, in the sparsely furnished living room, the pocket watch stood out on the bare mantelpiece.

His antique clothing jarred in the almost empty wardrobes.

'Like dressing up? Larping or cosplay, or maybe something kinky?'

'No comment.'

'And the books, James? Seem to have a thing for prostitutes. . . and murder, don't we?'

'No comment.'

The few remaining books were placed in evidence bags, Riding almost felt glad his other works had disappeared. Whatever trouble these guys thought he was in didn't need any further fuel.

But what trouble was he in? The girl? Snooze you lose?

OK, he'd spoken to her, twice, on the day she was killed. Remembered the news report hours after he'd dropped her off.

Remembered feeling very embarrassed. Guilt and shame at having paid her for her time.

Nothing sexual, well nothing obviously sexual. He'd given her fifty pounds just to take a few photos, again nothing sexual.

Merely asked her to drape one of his capes over her shoulders, took a few snaps, trying to visualise her back in his time. . . Jeez, James! Back in the 1800s!

Asked her to throw her head back, stretch her neck, expose her throat, just for a few photos. . . an idea for a future book jacket.. The obvious implications hit him hard. . . Oh, God!

James looked at the pile of evidence bags. His mobile phone still had those photos!

A short while later, Riding's nightmare began in earnest.

'This interview is being recorde. Aat the conclusion of the interview I will give you a notice explaining your rights, and what will happen to the tapes. You will receive a sealed copy of the tapes.

'I remind you, you are under caution, and you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

'The time is 21.33, the date is Monday, 30th September. I am Constable John Davies, also present is.. '

'Detective Constable Mike Meredith.'

'Catherine Johnson, legal representative, Johnson, Burns, and Smith Solicitors.'

'Thank you.' Davies leans across the table, gesturing to the microphone.
Please state your name and date of birth for the tape.'

'No comment.'

'No comment. . . For your name. Really?'

Davies sighed; this was going to be a bloody weird night. He let out another exaggerated sigh (just to get his point across) and tried again.

'OK, Mr No Comment, do you know why you've been arrested?'

'No comment.'

'Earlier today you were detained on suspicion of the murder of Joanne Greene. For the benefit of the tape, we are running detailed forensic tests, DNA, that kind of thing, you think we'll find yours, James?'

'No comment.'

'Sorry, my bad, we've already found your fingerprints, on a fifty-pound note, the cash tucked inside the dead girl's boot!'

'No comment.'

He leant forward again.

'Whoever butchered the poor love, and at this particular moment, I'm looking at you, rest assured, son, we'll find out and she'll get the justice she deserves!'

'No comment.'

D/C Meredith held out a plastic coffee cup.

'Give us a minute, please, John, been a heavy night for us all. Cup of hot brown? I'd call it coffee, but we're being recorded, and I don't want to be misleading! Or is that a 'no comment', too?'

He smiled as the detained person nodded and took a sip.

'Thanks.'

'When you were arrested, in Heswall, we found your mobile phone (Exhibit MM02). I'm showing Mr Riding the three photos, MM02A, B and C, taken from the phone's gallery file. Care to elaborate? Give us your side of the story?'

A glance towards the lawyer, a slight shake of her head. He looked instead at the clock on the interview room wall, then at the plastic forensics bag on the table. The photos of the girl's neck. Throat taught. Inviting.

'Artwork for a book, my book, nothing more than a few pretty pictures!'

'And these, erm, drawings? (Exh. ref MM15,16,17 and 19.)'

Pages from his notepad, the nightmare crimson maw.

Meredith noticed Ridings face change.

'More pretty pictures?'

'No comment.'

'Explain these red drawings for me, James, tell me why?'

'No comment.'

'You see, James, they're very similar to what we found at the crime scene. I have photos here, take a look, tell us what's going on?'

Davies fished several SOCO photographs from a manilla envelope, slowly placing each, face up, on the table in front of Riding.

Riding refused to look at the nightmare before him, his very personal nightmare, he wished he could. . .

'Why the lipstick, James, enlighten us: why make her look like this?'

Riding turned his head away further, catching sight of another exhibit. An idea forming. He could go back, make sure there was no notebook, delete those stupid bloody photos from his phone, or maybe even warn the girl, pay her to go home early?

Or maybe he could observe. . .

Riding ignored the unbidden, silent voice, although momentarily thrilled at the thought.

'For the benefit of the tape, the detained person is staring at the exhibit bag containing his property upon arrest. I'm now showing the DP, Mr Riding, Exhibit reference number MM12, a rather nice pocket watch. Aantique?'

Meredith held out the watch, noting the reaction of his prisoner.

'Take it this is yours? Valuable, I'll bet? Bloody complicated piece though, eh? How on Earth does this thing work? Can't even see the time� or am I just being thick?'

Eyes across the table were glued to the intricate dial, a look of concentration on the detainee's face. A slight smile crossed his features as he held out his hand for the watch.

Meredith pulled the watch away, 'The girl?'

'Research. I'm a writer.'

'Writer, eh? Anything I may have read?'

'That's debatable, depending on when you last read a book! Anyway, I paid her for some insight, you know of her work, her life, the dangers, please, can I see my pocket watch?'

'Tell me more about what you talked about, maybe you'll get your watch?'

'She was a cleaner by day, prostitute by night. A part-time hooker, dollymops, they called them.'

'Called them? Past tense, never heard of that one.'

'Slang changes, back then. . . '

Meredith held out the watch, keen to keep him talking.

'Go on. . . '

'Anyway, a prostitute. Thought she'd make a good jacket cover, shots of her throat. She had her throat cut, didn't she, but the red lipstick? That's new. Wrong. Shouldn't be there, here, now.'

A cough from the solicitor, a hand of restraint held up, but he carried on, hand clutching the pocket watch, eyes glued to the dial, as though counting the seconds off.

'Spitting image of the third victim, I thought. Elizabeth Stride. She was found, should've been found, will be found, by Louis Diemshutz in Dutfield's Yard, just off Berner Street. . . London. . . Whitechapel. . . 30th September. . . 1888! But this is new! I need to see her again!'

'What do you mean, third? Who. . . ?'

Riding pushed the chair back, standing up, a smile on his face as he closed his eyes.

He held up the pocket watch, pressing the raised button.

The interview room blurred for a fraction of a second.

'You alright, James?'

Riding stared, wide-eyed, at the useless pocket watch. Then back at the three people looking up at him quizzically.

'Thought you'd left us for a mo' there!'

Riding sat down. Confused and becoming increasingly worried.

'You asked us, stated really, that she had had her throat cut, and mentioned lipstick? The same images appear in your notebook. . . how would you know that Mr Riding, none of the details have been in the public domain?'

'No comment.'

'Not looking good for you, is it? The girl in your car, the photos of her on your phone, your prints on money on her body, and now the drawings of the actual crime scene. Nope, not looking good at all. What did you use, James, now's your chance?'

Riding's eyes flickered up, no murder weapon and nothing to put him at the scene. Maybe he had a chance, get the bloody pocket watch working, get back?

'I've told you, Officer, wrong place, and certainly the wrong time. I'm a writer, I simply paid the young lady to take some photos and asked her a few questions about her lifestyle. Pure research, nothing more, nothing illegal.

I'm researching Victorian murders, hence the doodles and remarks in my notepad. Nothing illegal there, and I like to dress in period clothing to get a feel for my characters, quirky but legal. Now, unless you have more questions, I'd like to go home.'

'Just a few more. You mentioned Elizabeth Stride, you needed to see her again? Who is Elizabeth?'

'Not her, the other girl, I meant. . . No comment.'

'Speaking of other girls, James, this murder reminds me of a crime scene I sat on back in the day, when me and John here, were still sprogs. Sorry, when we were still young probationary officers.

Nasty murder, but a very similar M. O. Still an open case that one. Maybe I'll go back to that one, do a little digging?'

Meredith knew there was no way Riding could have been involved in the cold case, he'd have been just a baby back then, but anything he could use to break him down, make him rattled, was worth a shot.

'Perhaps we have a serial killer in Liverpool? Maybe we'll do a bit of digging, as I say. Would your name pop up in any others do you think James? Now, do you wish to tell us anything now, rather than later, it really would go in your favour if other crimes come to light.'

'No comment.'

Riding seemed uninterested in anything other than his watch, replying no comment to all other questions as he stared at the timepiece.

Meredith let him hold the watch whilst the interview resumed, despite the no comment replies, satisfied he had enough already, sure that the murder weapon would be found, and Riding could be placed at the scene.

As for the cold case, Meredith decided a visit to the File Room may be in order.

At 23.54 pm, James Rider was bailed with conditions, whilst further investigations were made into the murder of Joanne Greene.

FWR

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