“Well,” Abigail began, “it’s definitely a boy. The pelvic measurements tell us that. But, more importantly, I’m almost certain that he was murdered—there’s a large fracture at the back of the skull. This isn’t a stress fracture caused by the intense heat of the fire, and it’s not an impact fracture caused by the ceiling falling down because, as we can see from his very badly damaged jaw and cheekbones, ‘Sheila’ was face up on the sofa. The back of his head, if anything, would have been protected as the fire took hold and debris fell. No, I’d say that the fracture to the back of the skull is a good old-fashioned blunt force trauma. But I won’t be able to tell you until tomorrow. His postmortem is scheduled for 9 a.m.”

“What’s wrong with today?”

Prescott wanted the victim’s cause of death and he wanted it now.

“Well, I could do him today.” Abigail glanced across the lab at a postmortem table in the corner of the room. On the table was a sheeted body, no taller than three foot five. “But you’ll have tell the parents of that 6-year-old boy that they have to wait another 48 hours before I can tell them if their son was raped before he was strangled.”

Prescott left without saying another word.

Prescott’s office was minimalist to say the least. His desk, under normal circumstances, had a metal lattice cup for his pens, a desk diary, a phone and a small tray for the junk he’d pulled out of his pockets and needed to drop somewhere safe. This tray contained chewing gum, a USB stick, headache tablets, his wallet and a set of keys, complete with a miniature screwdriver for tightening the arms on his glasses. The desk itself was standard, but his chair was magnificent; Prescott liked to think in comfort.

Today, his desk was littered with crime scene photos from Rose Cottage, and Sally’s video evidence played on a tablet propped up against the phone. He sat, enveloped in his huge leather office chair and took in all the images. Prescott’s visual memory was legendary—when he looked at a photo, he could also recall what was just out of frame. It was as though he was back at the scene. The stacks of cash in the fireplace of Rose Cottage were a puzzle to him because the money dated from before May 2017, when the cotton fiber five-pound note went out of circulation and was replaced by notes made of polymer. His eyes flickered as he thought.

There was a quick knock on Prescott’s door and two of his officers, knowing he was waiting for them, entered without being asked. They were each armed with a tablet and a notebook. Gerrard and Miriam made themselves comfortable and waited for their cue to speak. After a second or two, Prescott leaned forward over the array of images and gave Miriam the nod.

“Rose Cottage was on a long-term lease to Norma Walker until eight months ago, when she died of cancer. Norma was an ex-mounted officer . . .” At this point, Prescott sat back in his chair, as for him, this was the most effective position in which to think as well as listen. “She kept our working horses in her stables when the need arose, and most of them retired there. She was diagnosed with breast cancer back in 2013 and, since 2016, she was pretty much housebound. She was well respected, had lots of friends. For the final eight months of her life, there was a steady flow of off-duty coppers in and out of Rose Cottage making sure she had everything she needed. Her partner moved in with her toward the end, I think. She had no family, which is why all her possessions were still there.”