‘This isn’t couples counselling.’ He smirked.

‘Sir, we both know this isn’t a crime of passion. It is pre-meditated. The killer thought about it. The body was left on display. It was almost theatrical. Our man…’ He corrected himself. ‘Our killer, is trying to tell us something.’

‘This case has really got under your skin, hasn’t it?’ Barrett sat back in his chair and folded his hands behind his desk.

‘No more than usual, sir.’

‘Come on, Joe. What is it?’

Palmer considered this for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Something feels wrong. I don’t like it. This crime feels like the start of something, not the conclusion.’

Chapter 7

12.48pm Saturday 14th December

Andrew drove, half-cut, along the A14 on his way from Peterborough to Cambridge in his ageing, dirty, white Citroen van, making sure he didn’t once breach the speed limit. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over and breathalysed.

The traffic was slow, crawling at a snail’s pace, as there was snow on the roads and a strong wintery wind battering the region.

He had the radio on for company but wasn’t really listening. It was simply there to fill the silence and distract him so he didn’t have to think about the situation he was heading towards.

By the time he arrived in Cambridge the snow was falling again, and the sky was a sheet of white.

He pulled his battered van into the car park and allowed himself a quick smoke before going in to the reception where, to his slight surprise, his aunt sat waiting for him.

‘Andrew.’ Her lips were pursed as she stood and approached him. There was no hug.

‘Aunt Frankie.’ He knew she hated being called that. ‘Where’s Ma?’

‘Your mother.’ Francesca corrected him. ‘Is having a lie down. She’s still in shock.’

‘Right.’ He scratched the back of his neck nervously and Francesca noticed how grubby his fingernails were.

‘You could have showered,’ she added with disdain. Andrew let out a sigh, already bored with her attitude. His tracksuit bottoms were also stained, and Francesca felt for her sister. What had she done to deserve such disrespect? ‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea, shall we.’ She led the way to the restaurant, her navy-blue pleated skirt swishing around her broad hips as she walked.

The teenage waiter, who had some of the worst acne either of them had ever seen, took their order and skipped off, leaving the pair to talk.

‘So…’ Andrew scratched his neck again. ‘Let me have what you know.’

Francesca recounted the events that had taken place over the last twenty-four hours with expert precision. She didn’t miss out a thing.

‘Someone strung him up?’ Andrew had not been expecting that detail.