‘Don’t be silly, it’s all arranged,’ she said briskly. ‘We can’t cancel now. What would the police think after all the fuss we’ve made?’

She had a point. Once they – well, Patricia – had decided to go ahead with the trip and memorial service, she’d begun pressuring the Met to send officers to join them. Katy’s case was still open, under the name Operation Pivot, and Patricia had argued that a British police presence was needed on the island for the anniversary to remind everyone, particularly the Majorcan police, that the search for the murderer was still ongoing. The Met had eventually conceded – possibly, Philip suspected, to shut Patricia up and avoid any more negative press.

Indeed, Philip suspected Operation Pivot only continued because of Patricia and her previous standing as one of the highest-ranking female officers in the Met. She was a chief superintendent in line to be made a borough commander when Katy was murdered on their family holiday in September 2004. Returning after an extended period of compassionate leave, she found she couldn’t pretend to care about solving other crimes while their daughter’s death remained a mystery and had accepted early retirement.

Since then she’d devoted all her time to keeping Katy in the public conscience with endless appeals, headline-grabbing speculative claims about who might be responsible, and fierce, relentless criticism of the joint investigation by British and Majorcan police for failing to meet her exacting investigative standards.

However, in spite of her exhaustive efforts, the ranks of Operation Pivot had dwindled from the dozens of officers deployed at the start. Now the team was down to a detective chief inspector, two lower-ranking detectives and a family liaison officer, the most recent of which had been replaced a month ago because Patricia felt she was becoming over-familiar. They had yet to meet her replacement, a DC called Maggie Neville, but she was to join them on the trip.

‘Have you dug your passport out?’ asked Patricia, the change in subject signalling that, for her, the matter of Philip not wanting to go to Majorca was now resolved. ‘Put it on the bed with mine.’

With a resigned sigh, he began rooting around his bedside table for it. The landline phone on Patricia’s side began to ring and she snatched up the receiver.

‘The Pope residence,’ she said officiously.

Philip paid no attention to the conversation until his wife remarked, ‘This is rather out of the blue. Why now, Declan?’

‘Declan Morris?’ he hissed at her, seeking confirmation that it was indeed the man their daughter had once been engaged to, whom they hadn’t spoken to in more than a decade. The same man who had, at one point, been the police’s prime suspect.

Patricia nodded vehemently.

She listened for a few moments then replied in a faltering voice, ‘Are you sure? Could it be a joke?’

Another pause.