The eyebrow goes up for a third time, but it’s less effective now that he knows he’s been played.

“Constable Rabbani. I understand she’s made inquiries about joining CID. I’d like to see what she can do.”

Jordan’s mouth actually falls open. He’ll show her who plays nicely with others.

“Which one’s Rabbani?” she asks Doggett.

“Girl who was first on the scene,” he says.

Jordan nods. “Oh yes, wouldn’t know a common approach path if she tripped over one. All right, DS Tyler, but she’s your responsibility.” As he turns to leave, she catches hold of his arm. “And Adam. No more fuck-ups!”

—

On the patio at the side of the house, the sun rebounds off the red-brick wall of the Old Vicarage and smacks Tyler hard in the face. It feels like someone’s left the door to a kiln open. The lawn that stretches in front of them to a wooded copse a couple of hundred yards distant looks abandoned, the grass dry and brittle and peppered with thistles and wildflowers. A lone oak tree stands in the middle of the wasteland, cut off from the other trees, like a scout sent out from an advancing army, now dangerously exposed. Hanging from one branch, a plank of wood dangles limply on a piece of rope, the remnant of a childhood swing.

Doggett is staring at the tree as though challenging it to make a break for cover, or perhaps imagining the cool shade offered by its twisted limbs. “Right then, hotshot,” he says, scratching at the several days’ growth on his chin. “Next move?” He isn’t asking because he doesn’t know.

“We get Uniform to canvass the neighbors while we wait for Elliot’s results. We can’t just assume the body is Cartwright’s.”

“Bloody big coincidence if it isn’t.”

“There was a gardener,” Tyler says, “up the road.”

“Good-looking lad, was he?”

He knows by now not to take it personally, but that’s number three. The third one has to be answered. “Not really my type, sir, but I could put a word in for you, if you like?” Maybe he imagines it, but he thinks he sees the trace of a smile.

Doggett’s leg jiggles up and down. “Six years,” he says.

“Sir?”

“This, DS Tyler, is what we on the Murder Team call ‘a right bloody ball-ache.’” The leg slows a little, and he shuffles one foot forward, begins kicking at a clump of weeds caught between the flagstones. “Right, I’ll leave you to organize things. Get Uniform started on the interviews; Daley’s around somewhere, he’ll give you a hand.”

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d better refresh myself of the original investigation. See if we missed anything.”

It comes out before he can stop himself. “Gerald Cartwright was missed.”

Doggett stops kicking, turns on him, and stabs a finger into his chest. “Right, listen here, son. Jordan wants you included in this. Fine. I think she must be fucking nuts! But who gives a sweet Fanny A. what I want, eh?” He catches sight of something above them and frowns.