‘We need to talk to Paul Sharpe,’ Webb says to Moen, over the bonnet of the car. She nods. He looks at his watch. ‘Let’s go.’

The drive back to downtown Aylesford doesn’t take long – a mere ten minutes. It’s a small city, with newer buildings butting up against old in the downtown centre. Fanshaw Pharmaceuticals is in a brick building, not far from the Aylesford Bridge.

Webb and Moen enter the building and are told that Paul Sharpe’s office is on the fifth floor. There, they are greeted by a receptionist whose perfect eyebrows rise ever so slightly when they show their badges.

‘We’d like to speak with Paul Sharpe,’ Webb says.

‘I’ll get him for you,’ she says.

Webb spends the time staring sightlessly at the expensively bland décor and thinking about Amanda Pierce. They don’t wait long. A man in a navy suit enters the reception area. He’s tall, well built, with very short salt-and-pepper hair, probably close to fifty. He’s kept himself fit, and he walks toward them with the ease of someone who stays in shape. He casts his eyes over the two of them. He looks wary, Webb thinks. He opens his badge, introduces himself and Moen, and says, ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

‘Sure, let me find a meeting room.’ Sharpe leans over the large reception desk and speaks to the receptionist.

‘You can have conference room three, it’s empty,’ she tells him in a discreet voice.

‘Come with me,’ Sharpe says, and they follow him down a carpeted hallway to a glass-walled meeting room. They step inside. There’s a long table and chairs, and windows that look onto the river and the bridge. The water is dark and choppy today. It has started to rain now, and it’s coming down heavily. Sharpe closes the door behind them and turns to face them. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks, gesturing to them to take a seat.

Webb says, ‘We’re investigating the murder of Amanda Pierce.’

Sharpe nods, his face a careful blank. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about it, of course. She lived on our street, and worked here occasionally. It’s a terrible thing.’ He shakes his head regretfully, frowning. ‘How can I help?’

‘Did you know Amanda Pierce?’

He shakes his head again slowly. ‘No. I mean,’ he amends quickly, ‘she temped here sometimes, but it’s a big company; she never worked for me directly. I knew her to see her, but I don’t think I ever spoke to her.’

‘Is that right,’ Webb says, and waits. Sharpe flushes slightly, looks uncertain. Webb says, ‘Are you sure you never spoke to her?’

Sharpe looks down at the table, arranges his face as if he’s concentrating, trying to remember something. Finally he says, ‘I think I did sort of meet her once, now that you mention it. Funny, I’d forgotten it.’ He looks up at them. ‘I was out for drinks one night after work, with some friends, and … I think she might have joined us for a drink, but I didn’t speak to her. She wasn’t sitting near me and it was loud, you know.’

Webb nods. ‘When was this?’

Sharpe looks down and adopts his concentrating face again. Webb isn’t buying it. But he waits to see what Sharpe comes up with.

‘It wasn’t that long before she disappeared. I can’t remember when exactly.’

‘You can’t narrow it down more than that? Even though she disappeared some time shortly afterwards?’

The other man’s eyes flash, a slight hint of temper. ‘I don’t remember the date, it was unremarkable at the time. But it was shortly before I heard she disappeared.’

‘What bar was it?’

‘Rogue’s, on Mill Street. Sometimes we go there for drinks after work – not often.’

‘Who’s we?’ Webb asks.

‘Well, it depends. It changes week to week. Just people from the office, whoever’s up for it, you know.’

‘Can you remember who was there that night, when she joined you for a drink?’

Sharpe does the same thing again – looks down, furrows his brow for a moment. He’s a poor actor, and a poor liar. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure. But me, Holly Jacobs, Maneet Prashad, Brian Decarry, Larry Harris, Mike Reilly. That’s the best I can do.’

Moen is busily writing the names down.

‘And why did she join you? Did she know someone?’

He shakes his head again. ‘You know, I’m not sure. Probably she was temping here that day and came along.’

Webb nods. Then he leans in a little closer to Paul Sharpe and fixes him with his eyes. ‘You know, I’m having a hard time believing you.’

‘What?’ He looks worried now. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Webb says. ‘Because we have a witness who saw you talking – intimately – with Amanda. Just the two of you, in the front seat of her car, downtown, at around nine o’clock at night. Not long before she disappeared. Wednesday, September twentieth, to be exact.’

Sharpe’s face drains of colour. His facade has begun to crumble. He swallows. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘Not like what?’

‘I wasn’t involved with Amanda, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He exhales deeply, slumps a little in his chair. ‘I didn’t want to say anything. Maybe I should have, but—’ He runs his hand over his face, and suddenly the pretence seems to fall away. ‘Look, I didn’t really know Amanda. I only spoke to her that one time, in her car. It was to warn her off. She was having an affair with someone here, someone I work with. I told her to stay away from him. I thought she was trouble. I didn’t want to see his life fall apart. Maybe it wasn’t my place. I wish now I hadn’t done it. I should have minded my own business.’ He adds, ‘The night we had drinks at the bar – that was the night I spoke to Amanda, in her car. But I don’t remember the date.’

Webb sits back in his chair and considers the man in front of him. ‘So you weren’t having an affair with Amanda yourself.’

‘God, no.’

Sharpe’s name hadn’t come up on her cell phone records.

‘Do you have a burner phone?’ Moen asks.

‘No.’

‘Where were you the weekend starting Friday afternoon, September twenty-ninth, till the following Monday morning?’ Webb asks.

Sharpe looks at him, appalled. ‘You can’t honestly think I had anything to do with Amanda Pierce – with what happened to her,’ he says, his grey-blue eyes alarmed.

Webb says, ‘You were seen arguing with her shortly before she disappeared. We’re just eliminating possibilities. If you can tell us where you were that weekend, we’re good.’

‘Okay,’ Sharpe says, nodding. He appears to think. ‘The only thing that stands out is that on Sunday we had my wife’s parents over for brunch. They stayed till mid-afternoon. I helped my wife prepare it and clean up afterwards. Other than that, it was just a regular weekend at home, I think. We usually stay in on Friday and Saturday night. Watch something on Netflix. I imagine that’s what we did.’

‘Okay,’ Webb says. ‘Tell us about this affair Amanda was having.’

Sharpe sighs reluctantly, but begins to talk. ‘There was always talk about Amanda. She was a gorgeous woman. She could be a bit of a flirt. The gossip was that she cheated on her husband, that she sometimes got involved with men at work. That was the story, anyway – sex in the elevators, that sort of thing. A lot of it was probably bullshit, but she had a bit of a reputation. Ask around.’