He has hold of her by both arms now and is talking loudly at her. She wishes he’d lower his voice. Everyone is looking again, she’s sure of it. She manages to push past the man and then she is out, back into the full heat of the day but free of all the stares. She hurries round the corner and into the churchyard, imagining she can hear the vicar still calling out to her, over and over. She half-closes her eyes and lets the wind carry her name away between the headstones.

—

The short drive to Wentworth’s house takes them past the churchyard where yesterday Tyler first met the man tending graves. On the way there he fills Doggett in on the conversation with Edna Burnside.

Doggett sits perfectly still for once, but as they arrive at their destination and get out of the car he says, “You were too soft, son. You should have pushed the woman.”

“Is that what you did six years ago?” he asks. “How did that work out for you?”

Doggett ignores him.

Joe Wentworth answers the door in the same grubby work clothes he was wearing yesterday. Maybe he’s slept in them. Doggett explains who they are, and he lets them into the house.

The cottage is shabby and dated; Wentworth looks perfectly at home. He shows them through to the living room, where the two detectives are forced to stand much closer to each other than either is comfortable with. The concept of minimalism has obviously passed the gardener by; every conceivable space is full. Tyler counts three sofas, two armchairs, and an assortment of mismatching dining furniture. It’s just possible to make out the shape of a sideboard running along one wall but barely, as it’s hidden beneath the cumulative parts of what must be at least three bicycles. Every surface is covered with clothing, books, empty boxes, pots and pans, bits of old machinery. The windowsill groans under the weight of myriad ceramic figurines. And in between every item of furniture, there are Babel towers of paper stretching heavenward. Newspapers and magazines, football programs, brochures, leaflets, receipts. As though Wentworth has never thrown away an item of printed material in his life. Only one chair is empty enough of clutter to be functional, and that’s soon filled with the crumpled form of Wentworth himself.

A high-pitched yap announces the arrival of a Yorkshire terrier that careers down the steep staircase from whatever flea market the upstairs passes for, and launches itself straight at their legs. It alternates between them, unsure which poses the bigger threat. When he tires of watching their discomfort, Wentworth whistles through a gap in his teeth and the dog jumps into his lap. He strokes it into submission with an earthy hand. “Paper said you’d found a body.” He gestures to the arm of his chair, where a folded broadsheet lies open at the crossword page. “Was it him then? Cartwright?”