‘Have you ever fired a gun?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Think carefully,’ she said.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rachel said.
‘Yes.’
‘I am now showing the suspect document 15. This is a report from the forensic science lab. Tests were carried out on your clothing. The report notes gunshot residue on your hoodie. Can you explain that to me?’
There was a light in his eyes. He was enjoying it, the fucking toe-rag. Most of the scrotes she interviewed, there was resentment or rage, derision, but behind that there were flashes of fear and anxiety or horror at what they’d done. But with Neil Perry there’d been no whiff of that. It went beyond cocky. Something missing, Rachel reckoned, something wrong with his wiring.
‘No idea.’ He gave a slow shrug.
‘Not something you’re likely to forget, firing a weapon. Noisy, deafening actually. You still don’t remember?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
She wanted to wipe the smile from his face. It seemed like the tighter the corner he was boxed into, the more he relished it.
‘This report also analyses the distribution of the gunshot residue particles. The greatest concentration are on the cuff of your right wrist, inside and out, and in the stitching of the lining up to the elbow. The only way you get that pattern of dispersal is when you fire a weapon. How do you account for that?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, ‘weird, innit?’
Rachel moved the report to one side, took a slow breath in and out then another. She placed a second report on the table.
‘I am now showing Mr Perry document 19. This is another report from our forensics lab, detailing trace materials found on your clothes. Tests found traces of accelerant, namely petrol, on your trainers and your jeans. How did that get there?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘There were splashes of the petrol on the front of your jeans. According to the forensic investigators, this pattern is consistent with what would be found when someone was throwing petrol from a container in order to start a fire. Is that how it got on your jeans?’ Rachel said.
‘Could’ve been a barbecue,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The petrol, maybe we used it to get a barbie going.’ He shrugged.
‘Did you?’
‘Don’t remember.’ A slack smile on his face.
He was pratting about but she knew she mustn’t let him get her back up and interfere with the agreed strategy for the interview. ‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’ Rachel said.
‘Who?’
‘The victim of the shooting in the Old Chapel.’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick.’
‘Didn’t know him,’ he said. Still the denial.