“I’d sell nothing to that bastard Henshaw,” he said. “Nothing.” He got to his feet. “ Look, I’m busy. I’ve a lot to do. I’ll be in the shed if you want me.”

When Grey left the room, Celia turned back to the oven. She lifted a fruitcake onto the table and put a skewer into the centre, then replaced it at the bottom of the oven. Ramsay might not have been there.

“I wanted to talk to your son,” he said, “but I expect he’s still at school.”

She looked at him seriously. “ Why do you want to speak to Ian?” she asked. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“He’s not in any trouble,” Ramsay said. “He might just have seen something.”

“He’s not at school,” she said. “ He’s upstairs. He’s got the flu.”

“Can I speak to him? It won’t take long. You can be present if you want to.”

She shrugged and disappeared from the room. She came back sometime later followed by a teenage boy. He was pale and seemed genuinely unwell. Ramsay recognised him as one of the boys who had passed him while he was standing at the bus shelter on the first night of the investigation. He sat next to the big, old-fashioned range and huddled into his polo-neck sweater.

“I’ll get on with this washing up,” Celia said, “while you talk to him. You won’t mind that?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “Of course not.”

She moved to the sink with her pile of bowls and spoons, and as she passed him she turned to her son with a look that was half threat and half entreaty. The boy took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose. Ramsay could not tell whether or not he had received whatever message the mother was trying to send.

“It’s about Saturday night,” Ramsay said. “Were you at home?”

The boy glanced over at his mother, but she did not turn to face them. Ramsay thought she was concentrating on not showing a reaction. She lifted a soapy mixing bowl from the sink and placed it upside down on the draining board.

“No,” he said at last. “I went out with a mate.”

“Which mate?”

He gave the name of the boy who lived in the council house Ramsay had visited earlier that day.

“Where did you go?”

Ian shrugged. “Just about the village.”

“Where in the village?”

“We were at Dave’s house for a bit, playing records,” Ian said, “but his mam and dad wanted to watch television, so we went out.”

He began to cough. His eyes were streaming and he spoke with a hoarse croak.

“Where did you go then?” Ramsay asked. “Did you come back here?”

“No,” the boy said quickly. “We didn’t come here.”

“Oh?” Ramsay said. “ Why was that then?”