The door clicked open and two guards escorted Edwards through the door. They would remain in the room, at all times, and were fully kitted out in stab vests and protective gear. Phillips didn’t bother to stand up or to utter any kind of greeting. He followed Edwards’ progress across the room and tried to assess the man.
Superficially, he looked very much the same. He was still tall and athletic. He wore his dark hair in a shorter, military style rather than the foppish, windswept waves he had favoured before his incarceration. His handsome face was sharper, somehow, the bones leaner than before. He had kept himself in shape, Phillips noted, but that was hardly a surprise. There were gym facilities and he was a raging narcissist. Of course he would keep himself in peak physical fitness.
The eyes were the same: dark, stony pits, which stared unblinkingly from two holes in his face.
With no particular rush, he settled himself comfortably in the chair opposite Phillips and linked his fingers together. The guards clipped his handcuffs onto the steel hooks atop the table to prevent undue movement, which Edwards tolerated with seeming equanimity. Given his history, there could be no predicting what Edwards might try to do, given the chance.
All the while, his gaze trained somewhere over Phillips’ right shoulder, looking directly at the two-way mirror behind him.
Sneaky bastard, Phillips thought.
Once the preliminaries had been tended to, Edwards turned his attention to Phillips.
“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he drawled. His eyes bored into the burly sergeant sitting opposite him. “Have you missed me?”
Phillips let the words fly over his head.
“I am here in connection with an investigation into the murders of Amy Llewellyn and Claire Burns. 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. Do you understand?”
Edwards laughed.
“I seem to have heard it somewhere before.”
“Do you understand?”
“Naturally. I haven’t been struck by idiocy during my time here.”
“Good. You are entitled to have a lawyer present.”
“Hardly seems necessary, does it?” Without moving his hands, Edwards seemed to gesture to the space around him.
“Are you waiving that right?”
“Go on, then. Let’s live dangerously.” He bared even, white teeth.
“Let the record show that Mr Edwards is waiving his right to legal representation,” Phillips wanted it all tied in a nice, neat bow. He took a sip of water while he considered where to start, but was interrupted.
“I have a condition,” Edwards continued silkily. “I’ll waive my rights, but I won’t be speaking to you. I think that a man of my stature deserves someone a little higher up the ranks.”
Phillips listened with a sinking stomach.
“Who did you have in mind?” He knew that the question was totally superfluous.
Edwards smiled again, enjoying himself.
“You do like to draw it out, don’t you?” His face fell into hard lines, and he leaned forward menacingly. “I’ll speak to Ryan, or nobody. Your choice.”
He leaned back in his chair and glared beyond Phillips, to the mirrored wall, with an unspoken challenge.
Phillips said nothing but knew with certainty that Edwards meant what he said. The man had nothing to lose. They needed information and he would happily clam up for all eternity without a second thought.
He called a fifteen minute break.
Ryan was waiting outside when Phillips exited the interview room.
“Let me talk to the bastard,” he gritted. “I’ll be only too happy.”
Phillips put a heavy hand on Ryan’s chest.
“Use your head, son. You’re giving him what he wants.”
A muscle ticked in Ryan’s jaw and it took willpower to drag his eyes from the doorway and the man who sat waiting, like a spider.
“You think I can’t handle him?”
Phillips began to walk away, in the direction of the foyer and the seating area reserved for visitors. He kept a hand on Ryan’s back, urging him forwards.
“You need to keep a clear head,” Phillips said with absolute calm. It was the same sort of voice he had once heard Robert Redford using in the Horse Whisperer, when he had tamed an unruly horse.
It seemed to work.
Ryan stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and closed his eyes for a moment while he consciously emptied his mind. Slowly, he let air in and out of his lungs, smelled the scent of industrial floor cleaner and something that reminded him of school dinners. Jacket potatoes and beans, or shepherd’s pie, cooked in bulk.
When he spoke again, his voice was cool and remote.