They’d booked her a room in a place called the Flyover B&B, a place with pine dressers and cast-iron fireplaces. Its name exactly described its location, right under Junction 1 of the motorway, where it met the Upper Drumcondra Road.

Fry made arrangements to meet up with Lenaghan in the morning, and she unpacked in her room. Then she switched on the TV, more for some background noise than because she wanted to watch anything.

Finally, she got out her phone. It had switched automatically to a local service provider in Ireland, but there were no messages that she’d missed. She put it on the table by the bed. But for the rest of the evening, her phone did not ring.

Cooper was sitting in his flat in Welbeck Street. He was watching the news on the telly, with his cat Randy purring on his knee and his mobile phone pressed to his ear.

‘So what do you want to do tonight?’ he asked.

‘I want to go shopping,’ said Liz. ‘I’ve still got some last-minute stuff to buy.’

‘Really? I thought you were more organized than that. I imagined you were the sort of person who had everything put away months ago. Drawers full of carefully wrapped and labelled presents for everybody you could think of.’

‘Presents, yes. But there are a few other things I need to take home with me for Christmas Day.’

‘And you want to do it tonight?’

‘Yes, Ben.’

Cooper exchanged glances with his cat, Randy. He’d never understood the appeal of shopping, but shopping on a Monday night seemed downright perverse.

‘OK, then. Where do you want to go?’

‘Meadowhall. We can be there in half an hour or so, and it’s open until nine o’clock tonight.’

‘Meadowhall? A week before Christmas? You’re kidding. Think of the crowds – it’ll be bedlam.’

‘It’s all right if you don’t want to come, Ben.’

Cooper sighed. ‘No. I’m sure it’ll be an experience.’

David Palfreyman opened the cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky. Glenfiddich, and it was still half full. He smiled for the first time that day.

‘There is a God, after all.’

It had been quite a day, and he deserved a drink. The police asking him more questions, a visit from Mel. It had been quite a week, actually, with the news from Pity Wood Farm that had gone round the village like wildfire, and the murder of Tom Farnham. But he’d resisted the bottle until now, hadn’t even peeped in the cupboard. But a large whisky was called for. A very large whisky, why not?

He poured a good-sized tumbler and held it up to the light, admiring the colour of the Glenfiddich. Peaty brown, with a hint of gold. Gorgeous. He could look at it for hours.