Giving up on the idea of Mrs. Galpin making a diplomatic exit, Rosie perched on the corner of the bed with a fondant fancy. “What does he do?” she asked.

“He’s self-employed. He renovates properties for the buy-to-let market.” Mrs. Galpin brushed a couple of crumbs into her palm. The four-bed detached house was well appointed and spotless, and her air of general fastidiousness suggested she would still do her own cleaning were she physically able.

“Must be a handy person to have around the house,” Rosie said, mentally noting the information and drawing a big flashing asterisk beside it. Galpin’s property portfolio would make for interesting reading, though she suspected a three-storey Edwardian might recently have been struck from his list.

“He is.” Mrs. Galpin beamed, obviously proud of her multifaceted son. “Did you see the wet room? He put that in himself, and he did our conservatory.” She sniffled suddenly and dabbed her moist eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Is he going to be home soon?”

Rosie put down her cake, the token bite she had taken sticking in her throat. A hurriedly arranged computerised identity parade had seen Jem pinpoint Galpin, while Paula had matched his tattoo but not his face. Jem was still at A&E, going through the misper files in an attempt to pick out the children she had seen in the back of the Range Rover. About his adult female passenger, she could recall little other than dark hair that had possibly been cut into a bob. As yet, there were insufficient grounds to charge Galpin, but he would probably be in custody for forty-eight hours.

“I’m not sure,” Rosie hedged. “Will you be all right here on your own?”

Mrs. Galpin nodded and jutted out her chin. “I’m only seventy-four, dear. Of course I’ll be all right.”

Although Rosie was wary of turning a casual chat into an interview, she decided to risk Steph’s wrath and make hay while Mrs. Galpin was being forthcoming. It was too late to turn her body cam off, so she left it recording. “Do you have any other family or friends?” she asked. “Someone who might be able to help out with the bits and pieces Frank would usually do? Maybe a daughter-in-law or grandchildren?”

“I have no one but Frank,” Mrs. Galpin said. “And he never married. He never needed to.”

It was such a strange turn of phrase that Rosie’s coffee went down the wrong way and made her cough. As Mrs. Galpin handed her a glass of water and a tissue, Rosie took advantage of their proximity, noting the confidence with which Mrs. Galpin moved, her deft grip and unflinching eye contact. Beguiled by her hospitality, Rosie hadn’t paid her much attention, a cursory first impression dismissing her as a sweet, obliging old dear, but perhaps that had been Mrs. Galpin’s intention all along.