‘Bullets?’ said Cooper. ‘Firearms, not a shotgun?’

‘No, Ben. There’s blood splatter in the woods, and a trail across the drive where they dragged him back.’

The search of Farnham’s house gave fragmentary glimpses into his lifestyle. His interests had run to anything mechanical or technical, from the innards of old garden machinery to simple computer programs. His PC system boasted a number of peripheral devices – scanner, colour printer, webcam, and some that Cooper didn’t recognize. Money had been spent on this system. Surely more money than could be earned by repairing lawnmowers.

In the study, Cooper found a cork board on one wall of the bedroom, covered in photos. All of them showed Tom Farnham himself, smiling that hesitant smile in a variety of locations around the world. But these were no holiday snaps. There was one of Farnham dancing with Marilyn Monroe, another of Farnham shaking hands with Winston Churchill, and one of him standing behind Stalin on the balcony of the Kremlin. Over here, Tom was sharing a joke with Roosevelt, and in the bottom corner he had his arm around Frank Sinatra, like a previously unknown member of the Rat Pack.

Cooper studied them more closely. ‘Mr Farnham was very skilled with Photoshop, Diane. But then, it looks as though he had a lot of practice.’

Fry peered over his shoulder. ‘You mean he put himself into all these photos? Why would he do that?’

‘Some kind of celebrity obsession? He was never likely to meet these people in real life, but he could look at the photos and pretend he had.’

‘They’re all dead, Ben. Dead before he was born, in most cases.’

‘OK, an obsession with dead celebrities.’

‘Very sad.’

‘We all find our own ways of getting through life.’

‘Sinatra, Churchill, Monroe?’ said Fry. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a pattern?’

‘Not that I can see. It’s like a quiz question – what do all these people have in common?’

‘I don’t like questions without answers,’ said Fry.

‘It looks as though Farnham was on the dole,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s a calendar here, but all it shows are the dates of his giro cheques, once a fortnight.’

‘But he was making money on the side, wasn’t he?’

‘Illegally, of course.’

‘I’m betting his visitors last night were some criminal friends of his that he fell out with.’

‘Friends with nine millimetres in their pockets? They sound like some kind of street gang from Manchester or something.’

Fry laughed. ‘Who do we know from Manchester that has a connection to this case?’

‘Mr Goodwin, the solicitor? Surely not?’

‘Stranger things have been known,’ said Fry.

The kitchen reminded Fry of Pity Wood Farm, though only in its amount of clutter. Gavin Murfin had found another door on the far side.

‘Where does that lead, Gavin?’

‘I don’t know, it’s too dark to see.’