‘You still got that foot problem? Time you saw the doctor.’

‘I’m seeing a podiatrist, thanks. Every week.’ The DC looked pained.

The jobs were assigned and they dispersed. They would go at this one like Rottweilers, wanting results. Some things got to you.

A few of the country roads were still flooded, the river and several fords were right over, fields studded with pools, but there had been no more rain and the canal towpath was visible again.

Simon drove past the belt of woodland, then up and up from where he could see the cathedral tower and what was left of the old city wall, the Hill, and Lafferton contained in its elegant oval shape, on the far side of which the bypass cut across the countryside, fields gave way to housing estates and then, though he could not see so far, on to Bevham.

It was mild, the sky pearly grey. A black bird was singing. There were golden catkins, thick patches of aconites still bright under the trees. He stopped and got out. The slight breeze was blowing in the opposite direction, so that he could hear no traffic, only sheep bleating, and the birds.

He was four miles from Cat’s farmhouse, six back into Lafferton. Harnham village was a mile away, hidden by the crown of trees.

A text came in. On site now. Jonathan P.

Two sharp bends in the narrow track that ran between trees led to a farm gate, and fifty yards beyond it, another bend, and the house. There was a very old oak to one side, a walnut to the other, and in front a great round-headed holly tree as big as he had ever seen. The house faced south-west, he could see the silvery late-afternoon light ahead, as if it were light from the sea. The estate agent’s car was parked to one side.

‘Chief Superintendent? Jonathan Purvis, Forbes and Chatto. You found it.’

‘I thought I knew this bit of the country pretty well but I’d no idea there was a house down here.’

‘Part of its charm.’

‘We’ll walk round to the front first. Don’t be put off by the garden – the previous owners were great gardeners, I believe, but he died seven years ago, she lived on by herself until last summer, but the garden got beyond her. Would take some work to get it back but the bones of it are there. You a gardener?’

‘Never had one but my mother was.’

‘Green fingers are hereditary, they say.’

They turned the corner of the house and Serrailler whistled. Even on a grey day, the view was breathtaking, dropping away from the garden towards a spinney, then field after field, with sheep scattered about randomly, like confetti, a couple of horses, broad hedgerows, and the river.