He was surprised when Andy Belshaw answered the door at the smart Scandinavian house on the hill and wondered why the man wasn’t at work again today. It wasn’t time for him to be home yet. The question was answered when Belshaw spoke. His voice was strained and scratchy, and when he waved Perez inside he said, ‘Sorry. Throat infection. Must have caught it from my daughter. Welcome to the house of the plague.’

In the kitchen there was washing drying on a line hanging from the ceiling and Jen Belshaw was cooking, so condensation was running down the windows and there was no view outside. Perez smelled frying onions and realized that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. From a distant room came the beeps of a computer game and voices. In one corner of the kitchen a hand-knitted jersey was stretched on a wooden frame. Arms wide, it looked like a headless child.

‘Inspector.’ Jen turned from the stove. ‘How can I help you now?’ Polite enough, but he could tell she wasn’t happy to see him.

‘It’s about John Henderson.’ Perez took a seat at the table. ‘It’s time now for you to tell me the truth. For both of you to tell me the truth.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Jen added strips of lamb’s liver to the pan. She’d dusted them first with flour, and her fingers were coated with blood and flour. Red and white, turning into a pink paste where they mixed. She rinsed her hands under the tap and turned down the heat.

‘No?’ Perez turned to her husband. ‘But you knew, didn’t you? You were Henderson’s best friend.’

Belshaw shot a look to his wife, but she still had her back turned to him.

‘Rhona Laing’s missing,’ Perez said. ‘She went off either last night or today. Would you know anything about that? About why she might have left Aith in a hurry?’

‘No!’ It came out as a high-pitched squeak. Belshaw seemed flushed with fever and Perez saw that he really was too ill to have been at work. The inspector leaned forward across the table. ‘I’m trying to prevent another murder here. You have to tell me everything you know. Both of you.’

‘You can’t blame John.’ The woman moved away from the stove, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘He loved Agnes’s very bones, but she was so ill. He knew she was dying and there was nothing he could do to give her peace. Imagine the stress he was under.’