Then he produced a small enamel biscuit tin, whipping it in front of them like a conjuror producing a rabbit. The tin was a startling royal blue, with Victorian-style portraits in round, gilt frames on the lid. He popped the lid open, and showed them that the tin was crammed with small items: photographs, letters, postcards, the stub of an airline ticket, a few metal badges, a gold pen, a roll of yellowed newspaper cuttings.

‘That’s me,’ he said.

The sergeant replaced his baton and took a plastic card-holder from him. The edges were cracked and split, and one corner was turned over. Inside was a card headed with the initials NUS over a badly coloured photograph, taken against a curtain in harsh, glaring light.

‘This is your Student Union card?’ he said, comparing the face to Stride’s.

‘When I was at uni in Sheffield.’

‘The hair’s longer now, but I suppose it’s you.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Simon Bevington.’ The sergeant wrote it down, and noted the membership number. ‘This address. What is it? Is this where your parents live, like your friend? Digs? Or what?’

‘A bedsit.’

‘I see. When did you last live there?’

‘Six months ago. A year. Who knows?’

‘This union card is last year’s. When did you leave university?’

‘January.’

‘And where do your parents live?’

‘I’ve forgotten.’

‘Come off it.’

‘My life has nothing to do with them any more.’

‘I wonder if they agree with that, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘We can trace them, you know.’

‘I wish you joy.’

The sergeant looked round at the two CID officers, and turned back to the young men. ‘We’ll need statements from you. Then we’ll see whether we have to move you from here.’

‘Jesus,’ said Cal.

‘A statement!’ said Stride. ‘Can it be any statement I like? How about: “Sergeant, I love you”?’

Cooper watched the young man carefully. It was difficult to tell whether his manner was an act or not. But he had just succeeded in attracting serious attention to himself. Because it was certainly his name that had recently been scratched into the ground in the middle of the Nine Virgins.

Cooper sighed. The smell of chicken curry was making him hungry. But he was going to miss his lunch at the pub in Ringham, after all.

Diane Fry called in to report their whereabouts to the incident room, but finished the call with a thoughtful look.

‘What is it?’ asked Cooper.

‘The team in Totley have been following up on Jenny Weston’s visitors. Do you remember a girl with dreadlocks being mentioned?’

‘Sure. The neighbours seem to have noticed every move she made.’

‘They’re pretty sure now that this girl was more than just a visitor. It seems she was actually living with Jenny Weston at her house for a while.’

‘Have they identified her?’