‘And if not, wise man?’

Grace smirked. ‘Then we really will have a “no body” murder investigation on our hands. Challenging but not impossible to get a conviction – if we can get the Crown Prosecution Service onside and then a half-decent jury.’

They stayed in the living room for some while, assimilating their surroundings, then made their way upstairs, keeping to the narrow metal stepping plates the CSIs had laid down. Another Forensics Officer was on the landing at the top, on his hands and knees, painstakingly fingertip-searching the carpet.

‘Where’s the master bedroom?’ Grace asked him.

The officer indicated with his hand. ‘First door on the right, sir.’

Grace led along the track, followed by Branson, into a bedroom that was entirely neutral. A deep-pile off-white carpet, white bedding, pillows, cushions, white furniture and a white fabric ceiling that made them feel like they were in a tent.

Marie Desmond, another Forensic Officer, was on her knees pulling stuff out of a deep drawer beneath the bed. Books, an assortment of lacy black underwear.

‘Opening a brothel are you, Marie?’ Grace said.

‘Want me to put this on the Sussex Police eBay site?’ she retorted with cheeky glee, pointing at a delicate camisole.

He nodded towards Branson. ‘Yep, Glenn here will be putting in bids!’

She held up something black, with a strap, that looked like a dildo.

‘What’s that?’ Branson asked, his face a picture of horror.

‘A torch – I know what you were thinking!’ she replied matter-of-factly, smiling. ‘We’ve not found any signs of a missing duvet or duvet cover, sir,’ she went on. ‘Just these and a load of old junk so far.’

Then she reached deep into the rear of the drawer and came out with one final item under more lingerie. She frowned at it. ‘Well, well, well, what’s this?’

The two detectives peered at the iPhone in a sparkly case. Grace shot Branson a glance and was about to say something, when another officer emerged from the en-suite bathroom, holding up a large plastic bag that was securely closed with tape. As he came into the room Grace immediately saw that the bag contained an item of clothing.

‘I noticed a small screw on the floor in the bathroom,’ the officer said. ‘I checked and saw it had come from a wall access panel, so I removed the other screws and found this hidden in the cavity.’

‘Oh God,’ Grace said. ‘If that’s—’

The officer looked at Grace and pointed to the bag. ‘I think that’s blood, sir, and do you see the tear there in the material?’

29

Monday 2 September

Joseph Rattigan had a poker face beneath spiky grey hair, a gut straining the buttons of his pale-blue shirt and a sloppily knotted tie. He was dressed in a chalk-striped suit that might have been made-to-measure, but not for him.

There had been a time when this Legal Aid solicitor, younger and fresher-faced, had been the bane of any officer with a newly arrested suspect, but now in his late fifties, the lousy pay and tough hours had worn him down, blunted his passion. The fire that had once raged in his belly had been doused by too much beer and junk food. His voice these days was bland and flat, as if he didn’t care, was ready to accept defeat because, sod it, no client was worth dying in a ditch for.