The side door of the Henderson bungalow was unlocked and led straight into a large kitchen. They stood on the step and stared inside. Everything looked new. More evidence that Henderson had been preparing his home for his new wife? Had he wanted to remove all trace of the first woman who’d lived here, who’d died here?

‘Should we wait for Vicki Hewitt?’ Perez asked.

‘Probably.’ But Willow went back to her car and pulled out a couple of scene-suits. ‘I came prepared this time.’ She kitted up, tucking her long hair into the back of her jersey. She put up the paper hood, adjusting the mask around her face, but lifted it for a moment to speak to him. ‘Come on, Jimmy. Are you letting me go in there on my own?’ She thought he seemed half-asleep.

Inside, she looked round. There was an integral dishwasher, but still Henderson had washed his breakfast plates by hand. A mug, bowl and plate stood on the draining board with a small pile of cutlery. The table had been wiped clean of crumbs. The tiled floor was spotless. On the workbench a kettle and microwave. A breadbin containing a loaf of sliced wholemeal from the Walls Bakery. No clutter. Nothing to indicate the personality of the man who’d lived there, except for a small cross, formed from a dried palm leaf, propped on the window ledge, evidence that he’d been at church on Palm Sunday.

Willow walked through to the living room. A leather sofa, a carpet the colour of oatmeal, plain brown curtains. All good-quality, all bland. A blank canvas. Willow thought Evie would have brought colour, art and books to the house. Pot plants. Hand-knitting and felting. Did Henderson not care about how things looked, or had he made a deliberate decision not to impose his taste on his new wife?

‘No sign of a struggle,’ she said. ‘No blood.’

Perez remained silent.

She continued to the bedrooms. The largest looked like a hotel bedroom: large double bed, matching chest of drawers and wardrobe. It smelled of new carpet and fresh linen. Willow opened the wardrobe and wondered if Henderson had kept anything belonging to his wife – a special frock to remind him of their meeting, her wedding dress. She was sure Evie would have understood that and wouldn’t have minded, but there was nothing belonging to the woman. Inside hung one man’s suit, new, still in its polythene wrapper, and a couple of shirts. Bought for the wedding? She opened the top drawer. It was empty except for a small jewellery box, and at last there was some indication of Agnes Henderson: a plain gold wedding ring, a modest engagement ring with a small diamond, a string of pearls and a silver brooch shaped like a raven’s head. Willow was aware of Perez, like a shadow, looking over her shoulder, but still he said nothing. She moved on.