From behind him, Barry heard a gurgle and turned to see Mike with a fire poker raised high above his head. As the poker came down, Barry raised his left arm to protect his head and his radius bone snapped. In a blind fury, he wrenched the poker from Mike’s hands, sending him off balance and spinning to his left. Once again, the red mist took over and before Barry knew what he was doing, he’d hit Mike as hard as he could on the back of the head. Mike landed face down, blood pouring from the split in his skull and merging with the red and brown swirly patterns on Norma’s fake Persian rug.

Ridley’s mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket as he stood opposite Superintendent Raeburn, hands clenched behind his back. There was a perfectly good chair right in front of him, but Raeburn, along with every other officer who worked with Ridley, was used to him doing everything standing—even sucking up, which is what he was doing now. He’d been attentive all morning, stopping just short of obsequious, because Raeburn was getting a second answer from the coroner today, after Ridley had persuaded her to push harder.

“It’s got to be low-key, Simon,” Raeburn revealed eventually.

Ridley hid his glee behind a well-controlled, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Across in Aylesbury, Prescott squinted at the grainy CCTV image of the pest control van leaving the grounds of Rose Cottage. The driver looked alarmingly like an old-school Photofit. It gave them nothing and he knew it. His phone rang out on speaker and he prayed that Ridley wouldn’t answer.

At sunrise the next day, a small ring of low-level LED lighting outlined the first grave belonging to Harry Rawlins, providing enough extra light for the JCB mini-excavator to do its job. The turf had been dug up by hand and was stacked in squares ready to be relaid later. Ridley and Raeburn watched by the graveside, while several plain-clothes PCs made sure that dog walkers and druggie teens didn’t stray onto church grounds.

“The diamonds had better bloody well be in there, Simon,” Raeburn whispered as she stamped from foot to foot, to keep her toes from freezing.

Ridley appeared to be far less concerned with property than people.

“It’s also time we knew who he was, ma’am. He must have family. People who miss him.”

Raeburn snorted. She was in no mood for sentimentality. Her predecessors had worked hard to keep this fiasco out the press all those years ago, and she didn’t want to be the one now standing in front of the press explaining how they’d buried the same man twice. She needed something to distract the public. Solving a 35-year-old diamond heist and recovering the jewels would do nicely.

Angela had taken a break from sewing cash bundles into the bus seats and had brought Connie along on her weekly visit to the graveside of Dolly Rawlins. She didn’t usually visit so early, but Connie needed to get out of the flat—she was missing the crisp fresh air of Taunton. Being blocked by plain-clothes police officers was the last thing they expected; if Connie had been sober, she’d have panicked. The police politely apologized for the inconvenience, before sending Angela and Connie on their way.