TONI JONES: You can’t lay the blame on me. I tried, but Gerald doesn’t think the business is viable. I happen to agree.

PAULINE JONES: You could have told me that before I agreed to purchase a van and committed myself to huge monthly repayments, which YOU said you’d share.

TONI JONES: Things change. I’m entitled to change my mind.

PAULINE ROBINSON: You can’t play with people’s lives like that.

TONI JONES: I can do exactly as I please. It’s your fault you went ahead and signed the papers without double-checking first.

PAULINE ROBINSON: You’re unbelievable.

TONI JONES: I’ll take that as a compliment.

PAULINE ROBINSON: Do you have any idea what you’ve done?

TONI JONES: I’m sorry you think you’ve been treated badly but you can’t lay the blame on me.

PAULINE ROBINSON: I most certainly can. Where on earth do you think I am going to find the money to repay the loan?

TONI JONES: Not my problem.

PAULINE ROBINSON: I owe 34k thanks to you. We were meant to share that. You owe me 17k and I want my money. And that’s before we’ve even spent the money on gutting the campervan to make it suitable!

TONI JONES: No chance.

PAULINE ROBINSON: You will pay. One way or another.

TONI JONES: Don’t threaten me.

PAULINE ROBINSON: It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

‘Phew.’ Palmer put down the notes. ‘Strong stuff.’

‘It’s certainly a motive.’ Barrett rubbed his chin. ‘We need to speak to Pauline Robinson and her husband. Get your coat, Joe,’ Barrett said, not noticing that Palmer hadn’t yet had a chance to take it off since returning from his last excursion.

‘We have the address.’ Palmer got up and followed his boss out of the office.

‘You’re driving,’ Barrett said, grimacing as he looked out of the window at the downpour.

Pauline and Roger Robinson lived at 37 Otter Close, in a cul-de-sac in the small town of Bar Hill, just northwest of the city. As they pulled up on the concrete strip in front of the house, the detectives’ eyes were drawn to a surprising number of gnomes that were lined up on the windowsills and by the front door.

‘Tacky bits of crap, if you ask me,’ Palmer said, getting out of the car.

‘Not my taste either, Joe.’ Barrett looked up at the dark sky, grateful that the rain had abated for a while.

Before they had chance to get to the door it opened, and a short, fat man peered out at them.

‘This is private property.’ He frowned at them.

‘Mr Robinson? DCI Barrett. We’d like to have a word with you and your wife.’

Roger, who clearly felt small in their presence, straightened his back and puffed out his chest.

‘May I ask why?’