He leaves the car where it is and walks the few hundred yards round the bend to the gateway of the Old Vicarage. A handful of uniformed officers guard the entrance, a human dam built to keep at bay the washed-up detritus of journalists, TV crews, and curious neighbors. He doesn’t recognize any of the officers, but this outer cordon is easy enough to breach. He puts his shoulder to the gathered masses without bothering to excuse himself and flashes his warrant card at the uniforms. They acknowledge him with a nod and step apart, lifting the tape that stretches across the driveway for him to duck under.

The gates have fallen loose, but someone has cleared a path by dragging them aside and propping them against the bushes. Tyler feels the cordon snap shut behind him as the mob renews their questioning of the uniformed officers. Ahead of him, along a wide gravel driveway, a large Victorian house sits among the oak trees, its red bricks pitted and enveloped in some sort of vine. At some point in the past there must have been a fire, and the black scorch marks are still visible above each of the broken windows, like excessive eye shadow. There’s something familiar about the place, like it might have been used for a period television drama. But then, it would be familiar. Six years ago the place was headline news.

The cluster of vehicles to the right of the driveway identifies the marshaling point. Among them, a workman’s van, half its contents spilled out in front of the house. There’s a mobile incident room as well, and more uniforms, arranged to form an inner cordon around the house itself. DCI Jordan has certainly pulled out all the stops on this one.

The young uniformed police constable guarding the entrance raises a delicate, shaky hand as he approaches. “Sorry, sir. No one else in. DI’s orders.”

There’s something about the girl’s temerity that irritates him. He raises his warrant card. “DS Tyler,” he says. He keeps moving, but somehow she manages to insert herself between him and the doorway again.

“Yes, sir. I know who you are. He did say no one, sir. I’m sure if you were to report to the incident room . . .”

Her backbone impresses him, but he doesn’t have time for delays. “I’ll take the responsibility.”

Still she hesitates. “Is that an order, sir?”

“If you like.”

“So you’ll be speaking up for me, will you? When the DI kicks me arse?”

He changes tack. “What’s your name?”

“Rabbani,” she says.

“Constable Rabbani. It’s good to meet you. Now fuck off out of my way!”

The girl is out of options. She sighs but steps to the side, allowing him to climb the half-dozen steps that lead to the front door of the house. He feels her eyes boring into his back.