Sitting there, she takes in the scene in all its cold, hard reality. She holds the photo up, comparing it to the quiet roadside she looks at now. Fire engines took ten minutes to get there; by the time they arrived the flames had erupted into a fury. Freya agrees with their assessment of the speed; he must have been going at quite some lick. The tree is embedded almost completely in the front of the car, metal sandwiched round the blackened engine, the bonnet gone.

Freya wonders how much Trevor Stevens would have been cognisant of the accident. Whether he was conscious at all after the crash. Whether he knew what was about to happen. How he would die.

And then, for the first time Freya thinks, was the crash deliberate? Was Trevor Stevens trying to kill himself?

She doesn’t remember seeing any statements from the family in the file boxes. She vaguely remembers there’s a wife and a daughter, and makes a mental note to go back and check. And then she remembers the petrol station.

She starts the engine, and drives the mile or so back. She pulls into the forecourt. It’s an old-style garage with a petrol station attached. Not one of the posh, corporate ones with a Jamie Oliver sandwich bar or Costa Coffee, but a display of chocolate running down the middle of the shop and a fridge at the back with cold drinks.

A bell announces her arrival, and she walks to the teenager behind the till.

‘Fuel?’ he asks, looking out to the forecourt.

‘Detective Constable Freya West.’ She holds up her ID and he glances at it, confused. ‘I’m here about an incident that happened a few years ago. The accident about a mile away, down the A32?’

‘I didn’t work here then,’ the kid says, and Freya curses silently. She should have called ahead. ‘You’d have to speak to my grandad.’

‘Your grandad?’ Freya repeats, feeling a glimmer of hope.

‘Yeah. He retired last year.’

‘Could you call him?’

Freya expects the kid to pick up the phone, but instead he bellows ‘GRANDAD!’ at the top of his voice, making her jump. They wait for a second, then he does it again.

‘WHAT?’ a corresponding voice hollers back.

‘Police want to speak to you!’ The boy smiles innocently at Freya. ‘Give him a moment. It takes him a while to haul his arse out of his chair.’

They wait in silence, and Freya eyes up the shelves. She fancies a Dairy Milk, maybe a can of Diet Coke to wash down her breakfast. She looks again, and she can’t see any beer or wine.

‘Do you sell alcohol?’ she asks him.

‘Not got a licence.’

‘And your CCTV? How long do you keep it for?’