The convalescent home was on the edge of town, not far from the ruined grandeur of Fountains Abbey. It was hidden at the end of a twisting drive, obscured from sight by a shrubbery that looked mature enough to have been planted by the original owners of the sprawling Victorian villa that formed its heart. There were modern two-storey wings on either side of the main house and small chalets dotted the fringes of the wide lawns, all linked by well-groomed paths. Lights burned in several windows, but the curtains were already drawn in the downstairs rooms. If she hadn’t known what she was coming to, Carol would have been hard pressed to identify its purpose from outside.

A heavy Gothic door stood open into a substantial porch. The doors leading inside were modern, however, and slid open as they detected her presence. Inside was more like a hotel foyer than a hospital facility. A way, Carol thought, of communicating to people that this was a step on the road to something approaching normal life. It even smelled like a hotel rather than a hospital, a vague floral scent like supermarket pot pourri hanging in the air.

In keeping with this image, the young woman behind the curved reception desk wore a cheap business suit that was slightly too tight across the bust. She smiled in greeting. ‘Good evening. How can I help you?’

For a moment, Carol was nonplussed. She’d been introducing herself by rank for so long she’d almost forgotten the art of plain announcement. ‘I’m here to see Chris Devine,’ she said. ‘Sergeant Devine.’

‘Is Sergeant Devine expecting you?’

Carol shook her head. ‘I’m her commanding officer,’ she said, slipping uneasily into the persona she’d abandoned months ago. ‘DCI Jordan.’ She took a slim leather wallet from her pocket. She wasn’t sure whether BMP had forgotten to tell her to return her ID or nobody had had the nerve to ask for it. Either way, she’d hung on to it. She wasn’t a sentimental woman. She could only suppose that at some level, she’d kept it because it might come in handy. She didn’t want to think about what that might mean. Right now, she was happy just to milk it. She flipped the wallet open and let the receptionist take it in.

The woman tugged her jacket down, as if attempting a parade-ground attention. ‘Have you visited us before?’

‘This is my first time. Can you direct me to Chris’s room?’