But at last they did seem to have an identification for the first body, and she was no longer just Victim A. Now she had a name. Nadezda Halak, aged twenty-three, a Slovak from the city of Košice. About five feet three inches tall, according to her brother. Slight build, dark brown hair.

All that remained of her was that hair, and a partial set of fingerprints from her sloughed-off skin. Oh, and those inexplicably decayed teeth.

Fry briefed the DI and received the congratulations she was hoping for. But she knew she wasn’t going to take the focus away from the shooting, which was currently claiming her bosses’ attention.

Accommodation had been found for Mikulas in Edendale, where he promised to make himself available if he was needed. Fry swore she would keep him informed of developments, and she meant it.

‘I hope he doesn’t do a runner, or anything else stupid,’ she said when he’d gone.

‘He doesn’t seem the type, does he?’ said Cooper.

‘If he’s concerned about his own status in this country, he might disappear again. After all, he’s achieved what he came here to do and found out what happened to his sister.’

‘I think he’ll be interested in helping us get justice for her,’ said Cooper. ‘Don’t you agree, Diane?’

‘Yes, but I bet forged papers can weigh heavily on your mind when you’re involved with the police.’

‘If they are forged.’

Cooper really did think Mikulas Halak would want justice. But he worried about that word sometimes. It seemed to mean something different when it came from other people’s mouths. Raymond Sutton, for example, had quite a contrary idea of its meaning.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Monday

At ten o’clock on Monday morning, with a major incident room getting into full swing at Edendale, two care assistants from The Oaks drove their minibus into Pity Wood Farm. They steered into a parking place that had been cleared for them as close to the farmhouse as possible, and they unloaded Raymond Sutton in a wheelchair via the hydraulic ramp at the rear of the vehicle.

When Sutton emerged into the light, he looked bemused by all the activity going on at his old home.

‘I thought it was all dead and buried, this,’ he said.

‘Some things don’t stay buried, Mr Sutton,’ said Fry. ‘Not for ever.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

When Cooper heard him say that, he started to have doubts about Raymond Sutton. It sounded too much like the script trotted out by suspects in the interview. ‘To tell you the truth’ always meant ‘I’m about to tell you a lie now’. And ‘To be perfectly honest’ could be translated as ‘I’ve never been honest in my life’.