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a two-year sentence. He got out after one year and is currently on licence… What’s interesting is that his barrister was paid for by none other than Gregory Munro.’
    Erika went back to the whiteboard and looked at Gary’s photo. The officers leaned back in chairs and there was a silence as they chewed it over.
    ‘Okay. So Gary Wilmslow’s a scumbag. He’s got a record as long as a crocodile’s arse, but did he do this?’ asked Erika, tapping the crime scene photos of Gregory Munro lying dead on his bed, arms bound to the headboard, his head misshapen through the plastic bag.
    ‘Gary Wilmslow’s also given us an alibi,’ said Crane.
    ‘He’s taking the piss with that alibi: they all stayed in watching TV!’ said Peterson, barely disguising his hatred.
    ‘Okay, but remember he’s out on licence and Penny is very protective. Please let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Erika.
    ‘Boss! Look at his record, he’s more than capable. I say we bring him in.’
    ‘I hear you, Peterson, but this murder was planned very carefully and executed with real skill, leaving virtually no forensic evidence. Gary Wilmslow is an angry little thug.’ Erika took the file from Crane and flicked through. ‘All of these crimes were spur of the moment – violent, impetuous outbursts of anger.’
    ‘The motive of inheriting Gregory’s money is very strong,’ said Peterson. ‘Three London properties, a medical practice. Have we looked into life insurance? Gregory Munro would most probably have damn good coverage. And then there was the personal hatred towards him. The means of entry could have been staged ,’ said Peterson.
    ‘Okay, I hear you,’ said Erika. ‘But we need more evidence if we are going to bring him in.’
    DC Warren stood up.
    ‘Yes. What have you got?’ asked Erika.
    ‘Boss. We’ve had more stuff back from the lab. Four fibres have been lifted from the fence wire at the bottom of the garden; they are all from a piece of black clothing, a cotton Lycra mix. There’s been no luck with lifting any bodily fluids, though.’
    ‘What about behind the house? The railway line?’
    ‘Um, there’s a nature reserve,’ Warren stuttered, unnerved by Marsh’s silent presence watching from the back of the incident room. ‘It’s small, but it was created seven years ago by some local residents. It runs a quarter of a mile along the train tracks in the London-bound direction and then stops at Honor Oak Road before the train station… I’ve already requested CCTV from South West Trains on the night of the murder.’
    ‘How far does the nature reserve go in the other direction?’ asked Erika.
    ‘A hundred yards past Gregory Munro’s house, and it’s a dead end. I’ve requested CCTV from the surrounding streets, although regular surveillance has been withdrawn from several of the cameras in the area.’
    ‘Let me guess, austerity cuts?’ asked Erika.
    DC Warren again stuttered his response. ‘Umm, I’m not sure of the exact reason…’
    ‘I can’t comprehend how the idiots in government think that getting rid of CCTV cameras is somehow helping to save money…’ started Erika.
    Marsh interrupted. ‘DCI Foster, this is something that’s happening all over London. There just aren’t the resources to man the thousands of CCTV cameras across the capital.’
    ‘Yes, and these same CCTV cameras were down eighteen months ago when we were trying to track down a killer. It would have saved thousands of hours of police time and resources if we’d had access to the images on just one camera…’
    ‘I hear you, but this isn’t the forum,’ said Marsh. ‘Now, I think you should continue.’
    There was an awkward pause. Officers looked at the floor. Then Erika went on, ‘Okay. Pull all the CCTV you can. See if there were any suspicious-looking characters hanging around. Anything: height, weight… If he arrived by train, bike, bus, car…’
    ‘Yes, boss,’ said DC Warren.
    ‘How are we doing with