The room was nearly bigger than Logan’s entire caravan, lined with crowded wooden bookshelves. A couple of green leather sofas sat on the polished wooden floorboards, a small stack of gardening magazines lined up on a glass coffee table.

‘We. . .’ A breath. ‘We left San Francisco, because Anthony was getting into trouble. Falling in with the wrong crowd. They weren’t good for him, so we thought, hey – let’s go somewhere nice and quiet and calm. Somewhere he can grow up safe. . . If anything, it got worse.’ Raymond Chung sniffed. ‘How did it happen? ’

No point dragging it out – it’d be all over the papers soon enough. ‘He was murdered. Tortured, then strangled. About four days ago.’

‘Tortured. Oh God. . .’ Ray Chung wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. ‘God, I. . . His girlfriend, Agnes, is she. . .? ’

‘We’re still looking for her.’

‘I should’ve asked first, her parents must be. . .’ He blew out a shallow breath, then eased himself down onto one of the sofas. ‘Tortured. . .’

‘How well do you know Agnes Garfield? ’

‘She. . . I don’t know, it was. . .’ He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry. If I’m honest, you know, one hundred percent honest, she was always too good for him. Anthony had her wrapped around his ego like creeping ivy. He said jump and she wouldn’t even ask, “How high?” she’d just do it. But he doted on her. . .’

‘Did Anthony ever talk about running away somewhere? Or moving out? ’

‘He always gets. . . He always got what he wanted.’

‘Maybe he talked about a friend’s house? Or a family member? ’

‘We don’t have any family over here. Anthony. . .’ A deep breath. ‘We left San Francisco after Anthony’s cousin got shot. He was dealing drugs on the wrong street corner. My brother and his wife said it was all Anthony’s fault: that he got Grant involved in it. We haven’t spoken in eight years.’

Raymond Chung turned his head, staring at the gardening magazines on the coffee table. Not looking at Logan. ‘I. . . I guess I always knew Anthony would end up . . . that he’d. . .’ He wiped his eyes again. ‘Oh, boy. . .’

Logan stepped over to the large window, giving him a bit of space to nurture his grief. A fat ginger cat picked its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden, tail making snake curves through the drizzly air. ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be incredibly distressing. A Family Liaison Officer is going to get in touch with you soon. They’ll keep you up to date on the investigation, answer any questions you’ve got.’

‘Will. . . Can we see him? ’