Removing the decoration from the branch she let it go, watching it fall to the ground, where it smashed into lots of tiny pieces. Some of the splinters just missed her feet. Next, she reached up and took the angel off the top of the tree before pulling it apart and throwing the remains on the floor. It felt good letting go and before she realised what she was doing she’d lifted the entire tree and hurled it across the room. It went crashing into a wall, knocking a picture of her father and mother together down and breaking the frame.

Scrabbling over the chaotic scene of broken branches and decorations, Marie ended up on her knees holding the damaged picture.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed clutching the photo to her chest and ignoring the bleeding cuts on her hands. ‘I’m so, so, sorry.’

Palmer drove the car while Elly sat quietly in the passenger seat. The pair were on their way to The Gog Magog Golf Course to talk to the staff about Dennis and Eddie. As usual, the Christmas traffic was almost at a standstill.

They pulled up outside the clubhouse and stepped out into the bitter wind. Elly tugged her coat tight around her body and tucked her face into her collar.

At reception a spotty young man, who looked at them nervously as Palmer got out his badge, greeted them.

‘We’d like to speak to the manager, please.’ Elly smiled, wanting to alleviate his fears.

‘That’d be Mr Boyd,’ he said. ‘Is he expecting you?’

‘No. But we need to speak him. Is he here?’

‘Should be.’ The teenager shrugged.

‘Where?’ Palmer’s patience was wearing thin.

‘I’ll go get him for you.’ The young man sloped off leaving the desk unattended.

‘Not exactly busy, is it,’ Elly said looking around.

‘Boring game if you ask me,’ Palmer lent over and whispered.

‘I can’t imagine you playing golf.’ She giggled.

‘I don’t but if I did, I’m sure I’d be good.’ He winked.

‘Can I help you?’ A fat man in a brown suit appeared with the boy.

‘DI Palmer and this is Sergeant Hale.’ Palmer shook his hand. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

‘Tim Boyd.’ He had a sweaty palm. ‘Follow me,’ the manager said leading them up some stairs and into the main clubhouse room, which had a bar and views out over the golf course. Taking them to a table with armchairs on the far side of the room, Tim sat down and beckoned for them to do the same. ‘Joan won’t interrupt us.’ He pointed over to the woman who stood behind the bar. His breathing was heavy. Clearly the stairs had taken it out of him.

‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to us. This is a delicate matter which involves some club members.’

‘Oh?’ The fat man raised an eyebrow and dabbed his brow.