‘You’re right,’ says Dallabrida. ‘I should, and I do. How would it be if you came to mine when you’re finished and we’ll order a takeaway?’

‘Tempting. Indian or Chinese?’

‘Your choice.’

‘Will there be wine?’

‘Red or white, madam?’

‘How could I resist? I’ll call you when I’m on my way.’

Lindsey Stockman appears harassed. Her blond hair is falling out of the clip holding it off her face, and as she opens the door, she glances behind her, as if she’s reluctantly abandoned something requiring her urgent attention. The hall walls are strung with clumsily made paper chains, red and green links marked by small, gluey fingers. In a room behind her, an episode of Justin’s House is playing very loudly.

Naylor holds up her warrant card, and Lindsey peers at it, then looks directly at Naylor.

‘Police?’ she asks. ‘I think you might have got the wrong house.’

The singalong music on the TV is annoying. Lindsey turns round and shouts down the hall – ‘Izzy! Turn that down!’ – but the volume stays the same.

Naylor introduces herself and Hagen.

‘Are you Lindsey Stockman?’

‘Yes.’

‘May we come in for a moment?’

Lindsey hesitates before standing back to allow them to pass. Pointing the way to an untidy kitchen, she dives into the next-door room, and moments later, Justin’s House is reduced to barely audible background noise, drowned out by the whining complaints of a young girl and boy.

Lindsey closes the door on the children and joins Naylor and Hagen in the kitchen. She doesn’t ask them to sit, but in any case the stools at the breakfast bar are laden with discarded coats and a pink backpack embellished with unicorns. On one of the worktops, bags of shopping are waiting to be unpacked, and there’s a mess of chocolatey crumbs and purple foil around an opened pack of Mini Rolls.

‘Kids,’ says Lindsey. ‘I don’t know why I bothered. So. What’s this about?’

‘We won’t take much of your time,’ says Naylor. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about a car you used to own.’

‘Let me guess,’ says Lindsey. ‘The Ford Focus.’

Hagen gives Naylor a sideways glance.

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘What made you think that?’

‘I had a man asking questions about it a while back, something about the brakes. Is he all right? Has there been an accident? I told him, the brakes were fine while we had it.’

‘There hasn’t been an accident, no,’ says Naylor. ‘You sold that car, I assume?’

‘My ex sold it, yes. Nothing to do with me, and before you ask, I don’t know who he sold it to.’

‘We can find that out through the DVLA. Can you tell me what car he bought after that?’

Lindsey frowns.

‘An Alfa Romeo. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘What model?’