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‘Absolutely right,’ Allan said, recognising a minefield when he’d stepped into one. ‘It’s a vile idea.’
His wife smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Morgan’s got this.’
‘I’d like to move on to you personally, if I can, Kane?’ Morgan said.
‘Shoot.’
‘Are you lactose intolerant?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s a simple question. Are you able to digest dairy products?’
Hunt frowned. ‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Morgan,’ he said.
‘You’re not the only one,’ Justine said to her husband.
He shrugged.
‘What the hell is she up to?’ she added.
‘No, I’m not lactose intolerant,’ Hunt said. ‘Why would you think I am?’
‘Because you get a lot of milkshakes thrown over you and I was wondering if that’s why you felt you needed a bodyguard tonight.’
‘I have a high profile. I get death threats.’
‘I wasn’t aware of this. Have you reported any of them to the police?’
‘Half the police force are women,’ Hunt sneered. ‘How seriously do you think they’re going to take a threat against me?’
‘About as seriously as the rest of us, I’d imagine.’
Hunt reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a folded pieceof paper. ‘Here, have a look,’ he said. ‘This is the latest one – it came a few days ago.’
He passed it across. Morgan opened it. Something fell on her lap. She picked it up.
‘Close up on that,’ Justine said.
Yosef did his thing and the master screen was filled with Morgan’s hand.
‘What the hell …?’ Allan said.
It was a pressed flower. Delicate lilac. Star-shaped with five pointed petals. Pretty. Non-threatening.
‘It’s a flower,’ Morgan said. ‘So what?’
‘Read the note,’ Hunt replied.
Morgan was too much of a pro to read out loud something she’d only just been handed. She scanned it for anything tricky, but there was nothing. It was a poem.
‘It’s an octave,’ she said. ‘An eight-line stanza, if I’m not mistaken.’
She tilted it so camera three could pick it up, then read it out.
Under the hanged man’s hood,
Beneath his dripping blood,
