Someone tapped him on the arm and when he looked up he saw that the Chief was moving forward to join the forensic team and the undertakers. Cold as the grave. It carried real meaning. The opaque white sides of the tent let in the morning light. The sun would be up in half an hour but the temperature was minus five.

The grave had been opened, the earth piled on either side by the digger, handled as carefully, accurately, as if the bucket were a teaspoon. But it was man not machine power that took over now, six feet below the ground they stood on, securing the coffin to be lifted up, as respectfully as it had been lowered so recently into its resting place. Later, it would be returned there, in the same way and with the same respect.

At ten minutes to ten, Serrailler was sitting alone in the coffee shop with his double espresso and a pile of cinnamon pancakes, attending to his hunger and thirst but struggling to get warm, though the place was small and there was already a fug inside and steam on the windows.

He had felt no particular emotion during the exhumation, other than a renewed determination to get to the truth about Liam Payne’s death quickly. He was glad the family had not been there. It was not a scene they could have borne easily, nor ever have erased from their minds.