forgotten about,’ Derwent said.
‘Let’s talk about the twenty-third of July two years ago.’ I watched for a reaction from Ashington, and was disappointed. Fallon wrote himself a note and circled it with a savage slash of his biro.
‘I – I don’t know what happened on the twenty-third of July two years ago.’ Ashington sounded baffled.
‘It was one of those occasions when you borrowed Luke’s car,’ Derwent said. ‘He was away on holidays, so you probably didn’t even need to ask permission. This time you drove it into the countryside. To a place called Standen Fitzallen.’
If I’d thought Peter Ashington was pale before, I had a new standard for that. His face was entirely bloodless, his lips white. ‘How – how do you know about that?’
‘What were you doing there, Peter?’
‘P-picking someone up.’
‘Who?’
He shook his head, but it lacked conviction. ‘No one I knew.’
‘You drove to Standen Fitzallen for a stranger.’
‘No. Roddy asked me to.’
‘Was it Roddy Asquith you picked up?’ I asked.
‘No, he was with me—’ Ashington stopped himself and took a deep breath. ‘I drove there because Roddy asked me to. We picked someone up. I didn’t know him. He slept on the back seat while I drove to London. I took him to Roddy’s place, parked the car and left.’
‘It was a Sunday, wasn’t it?’
‘Sunday afternoon.’
‘Were you all right to drive?’ Derwent asked.
‘I was fine.’
‘I suppose it was late enough by then. You must have had a hell of a hangover though.’
Alarm came off Ashington in waves. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’d been out the night before at the Chiron Club. Big night, wasn’t it? A special celebration?’
I clicked my fingers. ‘A celebration of Sir Marcus Gley’s presidency, wasn’t it? They published a special little book about him to mark the occasion.’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘So you were there,’ Derwent said. ‘You and some friends.’
‘Are you building up to charging my client with drink driving based on the notion that he might have had too much to drink two years ago?’ Fallon chuckled. ‘This really is a remarkable turn of events.’
I had the sense that he was playing for time on Ashington’s behalf, giving him some breathing space to prepare for what was coming next. What I couldn’t decide was whether Fallon knew what was in the envelope we had found in Ashington’s bedroom. He was clearly employed by the Chiron Club. I wondered if he was a member himself. I would have to get Liv to check the members’ register which we had removed from the club.
‘Peter, you were in the club that night. Did you see anything illegal taking place?’
He blinked at me. ‘Not really. I mean, a few people might have been using drugs. Not me. Some people. That does happen from time to time.’
You could see the hope dawning that what interested us might be the drugs after all. I ruined it for him with my next question.
‘What about the women who were there? Did you see anything happen to any of them?’
He considered it, then shook his head, his face a polite blank. ‘There were girls. Waitresses and so forth. But I didn’t see anything happen.’
‘That’s strange.’ Derwent opened the folder in front of him and pushed a photograph across the table. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
The picture was of two young men standing in the hall of the Chiron Club. They wore black tie, their hands were in their pockets and they were deep in conversation. One faced the camera; the other had his back to it. The one facing the camera was clearly recognisable as a younger version of the man in front of me, his face rounded and childish.
Ashington reached out a trembling hand and drew the picture towards him.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Same place we got the rest.’ Derwent drew a second picture out and slid it across the table. ‘That’s you talking to Antoinette Breve.’
‘Who?’
‘She was working as a waitress that night,’ I said. ‘In this picture, she was asking you if you knew where the ladies’ bathroom was.’
‘In this one, you’re pretending to show her.’ Derwent produced the third image: the slight figure between two dark-suited men who were guiding her towards a door.
‘That’s not the ladies’ bathroom, is it?’ I said. ‘That’s a glorified coat cupboard. Why did you take her in there?’
‘No. It wasn’t me.’ He shook his head.
‘Is this you coming out?’ Derwent showed him the fourth image. The other man’s face was obscured with a black square, but Peter Ashington was clearly visible. He was