While he was out, John took a puff on his cigarette and turned to DI Webb. 'Tell me frankly, what are the chances of anyone being released from Broadmoor?' Webb frowned. 'I'm afraid I can't discuss that sort of thing with you.' 'Well, if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me; it all sounds too fantastic.' Rather than risk a further confession with the others still out of the room, Webb cautioned John again. 'Yes, yes, I know all that,’ John repeated. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. Mrs Durand-Deacon no longer exists. She has disappeared completely and no trace of her can ever be found again.' Webb looked as close to startled as he ever had in his long career. ‘What do you mean – what's happened to her?' ‘I mean I’ve destroyed her using acid. You will find the sludge which remains at Leopold Road. Every trace has gone. How can you prove murder when there's no body?' asked John with a smile that said you're smart, but not as smart as me. ‘I see,’ said Webb, thinking that perhaps the question about Broadmoor wasn't so silly after all. ‘Shall we wait for Inspector Symes to return – perhaps then you could explain?’ Symes was then urgently requested to come back into the interview room where Webb whispered in his ear what Haigh had said. ‘I understand you’ve just said you destroyed Mrs Durand-Deacon by acid,’ said Symes, managing to sound matter-of-fact. ‘That is perfectly true, and it’s a very long story and will take two hours to tell,’ said John. ‘May I take off my coat?’ The two officers followed suit and hung their jackets over the back of their chairs, sitting on the edge of their seats like children waiting to be read a story. ‘Well, I’ve been worried about the matter and fenced around about it in the vain hope that you lot might not find out about it,’ John started. The officers nodded sympathetically. ‘Well,’ John continued. ‘The truth is that Mrs Durand-Deacon and I left the hotel together and went to Crawley together in my car. She was inveigled into going to Crawley by me in view of her interest in artificial fingernails.’ ‘This is the plan to manufacture fingernails at your premises that you’ve mentioned in previous statements,’ said Symes. ‘Yes, that’s right. Having taken her into the storeroom at Leopold Road, I shot her in the back of the head while she was examining some cellophane for the fingernails project,’ said John, pausing a moment to make sure they were all keeping up. ‘This using the gun we found on the premises,’ said Symes. ‘That’s right. Then I went out to the car and fetched in a drinking glass and made an incision, I think with a penknife, in the side of the throat, and collected a glass of blood, which I then drank,’ he added, pausing again. The expressions on the faces around the table were turning from shock to disbelief. ‘Following that, I removed the coat she was wearing, a Persian lamb coat, and the jewellery, rings, necklace, earrings and cruciform, and put her in a forty-five gallon tank. I then filled the tank up with sulphuric acid, by means of a stirrup pump, from a carboy,’ said John, continuing in an equally matter-of-fact way. No one was asking questions any longer. ‘I then left the acid to react. I should have said that in between having her in the tank and pumping in the acid, I went round to the Ancient Prior’s for a cup of tea and an egg on toast. Talking of which, I could do with a cuppa now, if that’s alright?’ he asked, and Webb nodded to an officer to do the honours. ‘Anyway, having left the tank to react, I brought the jewellery and revolver into the car and left the coat on the bench in the storeroom. I went to the George in Crawley for dinner and I remember it was late, about nine,’ recalled John. ‘I then came back to town and returned to the hotel about half-past-ten. That’s about it, really,’ he concluded, as the tea was brought in. He took another cigarette out of its packet, this time without offering them around. Symes pushed his notes aside for a moment and leaned towards John. ‘You’re not taking the Michael, old son, are you?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry?’ said John. ‘You know, not taking the Mickey?’ ‘Absolutely not, Inspector. Sugar?’ John asked, passing the bowl over the table.