But the man doesn’t bother to look. He’s seen enough. He’s disappointed, though he never really expected to find anything after all this time. He tarries now, only out of some perverse pleasure he takes in discomforting the agent. He steps back into the living room, allowing the bedroom door to shut them out. “Eighty-five thousand,” he says, as though giving it some serious consideration. And then he realizes he actually is considering it. He needs a new place, and it really is a good buy.

The estate agent nods encouragingly and echoes his thoughts: “I doubt you’ll find better at this price.”

The agent’s opportunism irritates him. “So what’s the catch?” he asks.

The obsequious salesman wrings his hands, and the man with the scar remembers the warm, clammy palm he was forced to shake when he arrived.

“The owner wants a quick sale. It’s been on the market for some time now.” The agent glances once, quickly, at the bedroom door. “I understand the vendor is open to offers . . .”

“I’ll give it some thought,” he says. A good deal is a good deal, after all. If he could get past the fact a woman was once gutted in his bedroom. Could he get past that? Perhaps, for the right price.

Back downstairs the agent leaves him at the entrance to the building with another sweaty handshake. “I’ll call you toward the weekend then,” he says. “Give you a chance to give it some serious consideration.”

“You do that.”

The agent begins to turn and then, almost as an afterthought, says, “Sorry, remind me what the name was again?”

“Tyler,” says the man with the scar. “Detective Sergeant Adam Tyler.”

The ever-present grin on the estate agent’s face finally slips. His hand falls away to his side, and he wipes his damp fingers down the right leg of his trousers. He turns and hurries away to his car.

Now Tyler is the one smiling, the scar tugging at the corner of his mouth.

—

The pedestrianized city center is beginning to empty, security gates inching their way protectively across shop windows. Tyler stops outside an estate agent’s window. This evening’s visit has reminded him he really does need to find a place and start putting some of his meager salary toward a mortgage instead of into the equally slippery palm of his landlord. He scans down past the country mansions of the Peak District through the detached leafy suburbs, to the bottom row and his own more modest price range. It leaves him a choice of three: a bungalow in a highly sought-after part of town (in need of extensive modernization); a studio over a Chinese takeaway (easy access to local amenities); and a first-floor flat (ideal starter home for young professional) in the apartment block in which he’s already renting. All of them are significantly more expensive than the butchered girl’s place.