“No.” Elliot frowns. “Why do you ask?”

“You knew Gerald.”

“I played golf with the man. As did you, I believe.” He’s calm enough outwardly, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Am I a suspect now, Jim?”

“You did go to one of his parties.”

“With my wife, Loretta. I can assure you it wasn’t anything like the ones written about in the papers. If memory serves, your DCI Jordan was in attendance as well. Perhaps you’d like to ask her what went on?”

Doggett holds his gaze for a few seconds while Elliot stares him out, then he shrugs and turns to Tyler. “Let’s get out of here.”

They leave Elliot in the cellar muttering obscenities under his breath that call Doggett’s parentage into question. The DI either misses them or chooses to ignore them. They climb the uneven stone steps back up into the house.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Cartwright?” he asks Doggett as they walk back along the long corridor to the front door.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Wouldn’t you call that a conflict of interest?”

“I don’t know, would you?”

From ahead of them there comes the sound of raised voices. They emerge into the early morning air, the darkness ripped away by the stark illumination of police floodlights. Oscar Cartwright is barely recognizable. He seems almost possessed. There are dark bags under his eyes, and his forehead is furrowed with deep lines. The floppy fringe of hair has been swept back off his face, revealing the early signs of a receding hairline and a glimpse into the future. It has been only a few hours since their conversation at the lake, and yet the man looks ten years older. He doesn’t look as though he’s slept, which raises the question of where he’s been all night.

“It’s my fucking house!” he shouts at Daley. This is neither the vulnerable, boyish Oscar nor the self-assured, cocky lover. This is a new version. One not seen before. Angry and ugly.

Tyler claps a hand on Daley’s shoulder and steps around him. “This is a crime scene, Mr. Cartwright.” He emphasizes the title, trying to make it clear that however things were between them earlier, it’s different now. “You can’t go in there.”

Oscar deflates a little. “Look, Ad— . . . DS Tyler. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“Who says anything’s going on?” Doggett answers for him.

“The reporters . . . they said . . .” Oscar trails off; the vulnerable boy is back with his big glassy eyes and quivering lip. He turns to Doggett. “You must be here for something. It’s the middle of the fucking night!”

The DI smiles, but there’s nothing pleasant about it. “And what are you doing here, Oscar? You were told not to return until we gave you the all clear.”

“I was visiting a friend in the village.”