The grade-two listed terraced cottage was picture perfect. On the front door hung a large wreath. Through the window the warm glow from the lights flooded out onto the street. It was inviting. Like a Christmas card you might wish to step into.

‘I always wanted to live in a house like this,’ Elly said while getting out of the car and admiring the cottage.

‘Nice place.’ Palmer agreed locking the car. ‘Let’s not keep them too long, shall we? I’m sure they’ve got other things they’d rather be doing right now.’

‘Yes.’ Elly nodded remembering the reason they were there and knocked on the door.

‘Hello?’ A balding man opened the door.

‘Mr Hucknell?’

‘Yes that’s right.’

‘I’m DI Palmer and this is Sergeant Hale. We spoke to your wife a little while ago?’

‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said beckoning for the officers to come in. ‘It’s getting chilly again.’ He closed the door behind them. ‘Won’t you follow me.’

Palmer and Elly followed Mr Hucknell through the hall and into the large L-shaped sitting room. A fire was burning and the room had a gentle smell of wood and coal.

‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to us,’ Palmer said, while Elly admired the beautifully decorated tree which stood proud and tall in the corner of the room.

‘My wife is just in the kitchen,’ the man explained. ‘Can I get you both a homemade mince pie?’

‘Yes please,’ Elly and Palmer both said in harmony.

‘Wonderful. I’ll just bring them through. Do take a seat.’

He pointed to the large red sofa covered in silky cushions and Palmer and Elly did as instructed. The sofa was placed opposite the fireplace and, while the pair waited for Mrs Hucknell and her husband to return, they found themselves getting lost watching the flames dance and lick around the charred logs.

‘Here we go.’

A woman appeared carrying a tray with a plate of steaming mince pies on it. She placed it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Both Elly and Palmer sat up having relaxed and sunk into the cushions.

‘That’s very kind,’ Palmer said salivating. ‘We really appreciate you agreeing to talk to us.’

‘I have to say,’ the woman said turning to look at her husband, ‘the call did come a bit out of the blue.’

‘We understand it is a very difficult subject, but we think that a spate of recent murders might, somehow, be linked to your son’s death.’ Palmer refrained from picking up a mince pie yet. It didn’t seem appropriate.

‘You mean Dennis Wade?’ the husband asked.

‘Yes. There have been two further murders. Do the names Wendy Connor or Edward Kilpatrick mean anything to you?’

Both husband and wife shook their heads.