It was early evening, and Gerry was glad to be out of the squad room. She had just heard about the boy’s aunt and uncle identifying their nephew’s body. They could now put a name to him: Samir Boulad, from Syria. But they knew nothing else about him yet, except that he had made a long and hard journey away from his family, who had all been killed in a bombing after he left. Just when everyone was starting to think the war was almost over.

Gerry enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face and her hair as she headed down Elmet Hill, only mildly annoyed that the sunny weather would probably bring out her freckles. Myers lived on one of the many narrow, meandering side streets, Elmet Close, and had said over the telephone that he would be pleased to talk to her again. Though he worked in the sales office of an agricultural supplies company in Helmthorpe, he said he often worked from home these days and would put fifteen minutes or so aside for her visit. So eager did he sound that she rather thought he might have an agenda of his own.

Myers’s house was a Georgian semi with a large bay window and a reasonably sized, well-kept front garden, complete with crazy paving, herbaceous borders, neatly trimmed lawn and a small patch set aside for herbs. Gerry recognized basil, thyme and rosemary, and could smell their mingled aromas as she passed by. The front door was painted white—recently by the looks of it—with a brass door knocker and four small thick glass panes above the letterbox. There was also a bell, which Gerry pushed, and in no time at all the door was opened by a tall man in navy chinos and a blue-and-white-checked short-sleeve shirt with breast pockets, one of which held a black pen. The white star on its cap protruded pretentiously.

“Come in,” said Granville Myers with a smile. He had a fine head of graying hair and a thin face, with a receding chin that Gerry thought might benefit from a small beard. Once again, she was struck by his resemblance to Nigel Farage. “We’ll sit in the kitchen,” he said, as she followed him inside. “I’ve put some coffee on. Will that be all right? I can make tea if you’d prefer. DC Masterson, isn’t it?”