‘No problem at all. Go ahead.’

Leaving the Crime Scene Manager in the kitchen, Grace led the way through into the open-plan living-dining area. He called Norman Potting and asked if Niall Paternoster would give up the passwords for both computers and iPads, assuming he knew his wife’s.

‘We’re just arriving at the custody centre, chief, I’ll ask him and bell you back.’

‘Tell him any cooperation would count a lot in his favour.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s not being very cooperative at the moment.’

Grace began looking again, in more detail than he had on his previous visit, at the elegant, minimalistic decor. The two white velour sofas. The smoked-glass bookshelves stacked with crime novels and true crime non-fiction. The fancy, ultra-modern electric fireplace and the row of framed photographs of the couple on the mantelpiece above it. Copies of most of them they’d already seen, pinned to the whiteboard in the Major Crime suite conference room. ‘Does anything strike you as odd, Glenn?’

Branson frowned. ‘Odd as in what?’

‘As in not fitting?’

‘Not with you, boss – not sure what you mean?’

‘This is quite an elegant house. Classily decorated and furnished by someone with taste. Did Niall Paternoster strike you as a man with delicate artistic flair?’

‘Not exactly. No. So how did he strike you?’

‘A typical hunk, with more muscles than sense. This must be the work of his wife.’

Branson nodded. ‘You mean, decorated by someone with flair?’

‘Exactly.’

The DI shrugged. ‘But that’s not unusual in relationships, to have one partner the artistic or brainy one and the other the muscle. That can work.’

‘But maybe Eden became fed up when his business failed, the physical attraction at the beginning has gone and the relationship has broken down?’ Grace suggested.

‘Yeah, and as they’ve got older they’ve changed, one more than the other? Perhaps this is what has happened here?’

‘But if Eden is the brains, and the original passion has gone, wouldn’t she be the one who’d want to leave?’

They were interrupted by Grace’s phone ringing. It was Norman Potting.

‘Chief, I’ve got all the codes.’

‘Nice work,’ he said, and jotted them down in his notebook as Potting read them out.

Turning back to Branson, he said, ‘Interesting he gave up the codes.’

‘He must be thinking he’s got nothing on his computer or iPad or on hers that could be incriminating, boss?’

‘Maybe. Or just knows we’d break the codes anyway so he’s trying to be a good boy, to give us the impression he genuinely wants to cooperate in finding his wife.’

‘Taking a risk, isn’t he?’

Grace frowned, thinking through what it actually might mean. ‘If he has killed her, he might be thinking that by giving us the codes, we’ll look less thoroughly. If he hasn’t topped her, then he’s nothing to hide anyway.’

‘And what do you make of it?’

Grace shook his head. ‘Early doors. I’m staying with my hunch that he’s murdered her and disposed of the body. But I question, from his attitude and demeanour, whether he’s disappeared the body effectively. My guess is he’s dumped her in water or dug a shallow grave – hopefully the BMW’s satnav might tell us where. If I’m wrong and he’s put her in the sea or in Shoreham Harbour, we have to hope she’ll float ashore.’