Tyler follows his gaze and looks up at the roof. There’s a tile hanging alarmingly over the edge of the guttering. It’s flapping slightly in a breeze that fails to reach them on the patio. “Is this place even safe?”

“Builders reckon so.” Doggett turns back and smiles at him. “But then, why do you think you’re the one who’s staying, while I go back to the station?”

The mention of the builders reminds Tyler of his thoughts from the cellar. “Why did they start there?”

Doggett turns and squints at him. He shades his eyes against the glare with one hand. “What?”

“The builders. Why start in the cellar?”

Doggett shrugs. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Ensure the foundations are sound before working your way up?”

“Maybe, but why knock a wall down? Why that one? It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? They only started work this week, and they went straight to the wall where the body was buried.”

Doggett chews on his lip for a moment and then shrugs again. He seems to enjoy shrugging. “Coincidences happen,” he says, but he doesn’t sound as though he believes it. Doggett looks over to a door on the side of the house. “Why don’t you ask the owner? He’s waiting for us in there.” He moves off toward the door.

“I thought Gerald Cartwright was the owner?” Tyler says, catching him up.

“‘Was’ being the operative word. His son just inherited the place when he turned twenty-one. Along with a small fortune. It’s him what’s doing the renovations. Congratulations, Sergeant. I’ve found you your first suspect.”

The door into the house is stuck, and Doggett is forced to take his shoulder to it. The wood groans stubbornly and then the rotting linoleum behind finally gives and the door flies open, pitching Doggett into the room. There’s a man waiting patiently on a rickety kitchen chair. Doggett makes the introductions.

“Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler, this is Oscar Cartwright.”

The man with the blackberry laugh doesn’t even blink. “Detective Sergeant,” he says.

—

Lily is sitting on a stool in the garden trying to catch a breeze. The heat is like a physical force, pinning her down, holding her in place. She thinks of the year Gerald took them all to Spain and how she spent the best part of the fortnight playing the wilting English rose; Edna said she wouldn’t travel well and, as always, she was right.

Edna is seated on the sun lounger, gently rocking back and forth while she reads from a copy of The Inferno.

The letter folded into the pocket of her slacks burns a hole in Lily’s thigh. It feels remarkably heavy for a single sheet of paper in an envelope. She can see its outline and feels sure Edna will notice it at any moment. When she moves, she worries the rustle and crinkle will give her away. Again Lily considers just pulling the thing right out and confessing. It would be so easy to pass on the knowledge, to pass on the problem. She could make out it just arrived, though Edna will see through this, of course, since they have already had a conversation about the lack of post that morning.