Sheila still lay on his side, in the fetal position. This was a common death position for people exposed to extreme temperatures—partly as a natural yet futile defense against flames and smoke, and partly because as the body dried out, the joints would naturally curl. However, this body had been found on a small two-seater sofa and so the curled position could equally be because he’d been too long for it.

Foxy flicked through Abigail Coleman’s very thorough preliminary observations and tentatively agreed that the large fracture to the back of the skull could be a blunt force trauma and therefore the cause of death.

Tomorrow morning, when he cut Sheila open, the first thing Foxy would look for would be signs of smoke inhalation. If there were none, then Sheila would have already been dead when the fire started. Which would be some consolation.

As Foxy refrigerated Sheila for the night, he smiled. He loved a good mystery.

Jack and Charlie sat in the window of the King’s Head, looking out over the patch of grass that the locals proudly called the “village green.” Charlie told the story of their first meeting and, although Jack had heard it a thousand times, he didn’t mind at all hearing it again.

On that day back in 1987, Charlie had got up from the garden bench and knelt on the grass to greet his potential new son. As Jack got within touching distance, he’d instinctively turned his back to Charlie, reversed, and sat down on his waiting knee. And there he’d stayed, while the women tutted about how inexplicable it was that someone had chosen to walk away from such a stunning little boy.

Reluctantly, Jack brought the conversation back to the present.

“You’re selling the bungalow ’cos you’re not coming back, aren’t you?”

Charlie took his time in answering. “A friend of my brother’s has reserved a short lease on a one-bedroomed flat in a wardened complex for your mum. She can have it for as long as she likes. She’s said she doesn’t want . . .” Charlie stumbled over his words for a second. “She doesn’t want to be in our bungalow on her own.”

“You might come home though, eh, Dad? I mean, you hear about people surprising doctors all the time. A few months doesn’t have to mean a few months.”

Charlie took a slug from his pint and even managed a smile, as he lied to his son.

“Maybe. You know us builders, lad . . . if we’re given six months, we always take twelve.”

The rest of the evening was like old times. Jack moaned about how badly Plymouth Argyle were doing this year; Charlie asked about Jack’s job, about Maggie and whether there were any kids on the horizon.

“The jobs have got to come first at the moment, Dad. Mags has not long started at the New Victoria and she’s doing really well—impressing all the right people, you know. Maybe in a year or two.”