‘Well, for a start, she seems to be wearing more tattoos than clothes. That blue ink must have some sort of insulating quality. Do you reckon?’

‘How old is she?’

‘Late teens. She describes herself as a student, but she doesn’t seem to be studying very much. As far as I can tell, she’s re-taking her gap year. But she’s banging on about her brother being killed in a car crash years ago, and I can’t make any sense of it.’

‘I’ll talk to her, if you like.’

‘Thanks, Ben. You’re a pal.’

Cooper got up and put his jacket on before he met a member of the public.

‘Hey, by the way, Ben,’ said Murfin. ‘Is Diane Fry leaving?’

‘What?’

‘Haven’t you heard anything?’

‘No. Have you, Gavin?’

‘It was just something that the DI said.’

‘No, she’s only gone to Ireland. She’s been sent to interview Martin Rourke.’

‘Oh.’ Murfin tapped his teeth with a pen, in a way that made Cooper pause before he went down to reception.

‘You’re always getting things slightly wrong, Gavin. Did you know that?’

Murfin looked at his computer suddenly, and his face went pale. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What’s the matter now?’

‘I’ve got an email, Ben. From Detective Superintendent Branagh. She says I’m first in for a personal interview with her tomorrow morning.’

Cooper didn’t notice the girl’s tattoos so much. Instead, he noticed her eyes. They were big, brown eyes, like a veal calf’s. In shadow, she looked like a weary Madonna – pale and worried, dark hair hanging around her face. But when she turned to greet him, the light of the grey December afternoon did nothing for her appearance. Before the tattoos, she’d been an ordinary teenage girl with nice hair, but really bad acne.

‘You’re the granddaughter of Mr David Palfreyman at Hollowbrook Cottage, Rakedale?’

‘Yes, my name is Mel Palfreyman. It’s short for Melanie, but I never really liked that name.’

Cooper could have guessed it. It was much too feminine and girly for a teenager who wanted to rebel.

‘Are you close to your grandfather?’

‘Yes, closer than I am to my mum and dad. I visit him all the time in Rakedale. In fact, he’s like a real dad to me. Tells me off, disapproves of my boyfriend. You know the sort of thing. But, yes, we get on fine. I was always Granddad’s favourite, whereas Ian was my parents’.’

‘Ian?’

‘My brother?’

‘You told my colleague that your brother died.’

‘In a car accident. When he was fourteen. Granddad refers to it as the RTA.’