Page 134 of Better the Devil

Eleanor Belov hadtwo lawyers with her—an older man named Douglas Fairweather, and a slimy-looking junior solicitor who nobody even bothered to introduce by name. Logan just tagged him in his mind asThe Boyand left it at that.

Logan took one of the empty seats on his side of the table, facing Eleanor directly. The Boy, who had remained standing, then moved to pick up the one remaining empty chair.

Jack placed his index finger on the plastic seat, pointing down, pinning it in place. He stared impassively at The Boy, then flicked his gaze into the corner of the room, directing him to go stand over there and shut up.

The older solicitor gently cleared his throat, and The Boy did as he was told.

Logan had never come across Douglas Fairweather before, probably because none of the people he’d previously arrested would be able to afford his fee.

He looked like the sort of man who had been sixty-three years old for the past three decades, and would likely remain that age until someone eventually drove a stake through his heart while he slumbered in his crypt.

He was slim, unhurried, and dressed in a charcoal suit that had likely cost a lot of money at some point in the previous decade, and which he clearly had no intention of replacing until it fell off him in tatters.

His face was blank, giving nothing away. Logan didn’t think he was necessarily trying to hide anything. More likely, he just didn’t consider anyone else in the room important enough to share his thoughts with.

He had scrutinised every inch of Logan when the DCI had entered. Then, his gaze had moved slowly around the room, cataloguing everything with the quiet efficiency of a man who liked to know where the exits were, and how to make sure that he would be the first to reach them.

He had introduced himself just as efficiently, giving his name and nothing else. Then, he placed a legal pad on the table in front of him, uncapped a fountain pen, and waited.

Logan had spoken to a lot of lawyers over the years. Some blustered. Some threatened. Some leaned across the table and got right in your face about it.

Douglas Fairweather, he suspected, had never leaned across a table in his life.

Eleanor Belov wasn’t giving away any more than her solicitor was. She looked relaxed, with her hands clasped lightly in her lap, and a contented wee smile on her face, like she was at a family brunch, not a police interview.

She was dressed in a pink velour tracksuit, but not the same pink velour tracksuit she’d been wearing when Logan had visited the house. This one was a different shade, with purple piping on the sleeves that clashed with the orange tinge of her fake tan, and the yellow of her painted fingernails.

It was right enough what they said,Logan thought. You couldn’t buy class.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he began. ‘You got your prints done OK?’

‘Voluntarily,’ Fairweather said, before Eleanor had so much as a chance to nod. ‘We’ll have that noted.’

Behind him, standing in the corner, The Boy wrote in a leather-bound notepad.

‘Of course. We appreciate it,’ Logan said. ‘And the wallet address, too. I’ve passed that on.’

‘We don’t see why—’ Fairweather began, but Eleanor tutted and rolled her eyes, silencing him.

‘It’s fine. Whatever. Happy to help,’ she said.

She didn’t just seem relaxed, Logan realised. Shewasrelaxed. It was as if this whole thing—the murder of her husband, being brought in for interview—wasn’t putting her up nor down.

What he couldn’t yet figure out was what that meant. Innocent? Guilty? Rich enough that she thought the two were interchangeable?

He’d soon see about that.

It was interesting, though, he had to admit. There was nothing forcing her to give up her wallet address. She could very easily have kept that from them at this stage, but she’d readily shared it, which meant she wasn’t afraid of the money trail, or where it might lead.

Logan took a few seconds to run through the formalities, and started the tape. She wasn’t being interviewed under caution at this stage, he said, framing it instead as an informal chat to help them with their inquiries. She’d confirmed she was happy to go on record, and then they’d begun.

‘Where were you on the night Victor was murdered, Eleanor?’

Logan heard the scribbling of The Boy’s pencil. He’d half-expected some reaction from Fairweather, but the older lawyer hadn’t so much as blinked.

Then again, some species never did.

‘I was at home. With my son. You saw me there,’ Eleanor replied. She spoke brightly, like there was a laugh riding on the ripples of her vocal cords. ‘Remember?’