She hears footsteps on the stairs and hastily puts the rugby shirt back, turning away from the door and drying her eyes with a corner of her cardigan.

‘You find anything?’ Butler’s voice from the doorway.

She crouches down, her back still towards him, and busies herself in a drawer. ‘Nope,’ she replies. She pushes Jon’s socks and boxers aside: nothing untoward underneath.

‘No porn?’

‘Not even a vibrator or a pair of handcuffs.’

She hears him sigh, and risks turning to face him. He’s opened the wardrobe next to her, riffling through Amy Miller’s clothes.

‘She’s probably removed anything already,’ he mutters. ‘We shouldn’t have given her warning.’

‘But what was the alternative?’ Freya asks. ‘We have no grounds for a warrant, no reason to arrest her. Anything in the garage?’

‘Bagged up a few items. Duct tape, rope, things that might have been used to strangle Miller.’

‘You think?’

He shrugs. ‘Not really. A stab in the dark. Plus all their rubbish.’

Freya wrinkles her nose. ‘Nice.’

‘I know.’ Butler turns and smiles at her. She feels a swell of affection for her boss, and a flash of embarrassment for not telling off those sodding PCs. He’s obviously been through a lot and yet, here he is, trying his hardest to work out what happened to Jonathan. ‘It gives us an interesting insight into this woman, though.’

‘What do you mean?’ Freya moves on to the chest of drawers, opening the first. It contains what looks to be exercise gear: tiny Lycra tops, folded neatly, rows of pink and purple and baby blue.

‘I’ve been in loads of people’s houses after a loved one has died – you too, I expect.’ Freya nods. He continues, ‘And few look like this.’

Yours doesn’t, Freya thinks.

‘This level of organisation and cleanliness – Amy Miller is meticulous, detailed. She likes things just so. If she has killed Miller, she’s not a woman to leave evidence behind.’ Butler shuts the wardrobe and stands frowning in the middle of the room. ‘Plus, she agreed to this. She knows we won’t find anything.’

‘Nowhere you could store a dead body?’ Freya asks.

‘A chest freezer in the garage,’ Butler replies. ‘Come and see.’

Freya follows her sergeant down the stairs and through the house to the door leading to the garage. As they pass the living room, Freya looks in on the PCs who are still searching, now quiet, gossip time obviously over.

The garage is as methodically organised as the house. Large white boxes, labelled with their contents. Tools, Spare Bulbs, Painting. A posh-looking racing bike is propped up against one side, the freezer on the other.