Tilly was enjoying the moment, up until the point where she spotted a man who looked like Dennis. He even walked the same way, with his head bent down as if he was inspecting the ground. The moment the stranger stepped into her line of vision the memory, of the rope cutting into the skin of his neck, returned.

She did everything in her power to push the image out of her mind but it didn’t work. Instead she found herself thinking how odd it was that he didn’t have his glasses on. He always wore glasses. Why were they missing? Where were they? Tilly realised that she needed to tell the police. She felt it was important, somehow.

Determined to turn her nightmares into something positive she set off towards Parkside Police Station, her large boots crunching through the snow.

Barrett and Palmer where just about to knock on the door of the house belonging to Jane Campbell, the other bookshop manager, when Barrett received a call from Elly Hale.

‘What is it?’ Barrett didn’t like interruptions.

‘News on the CCTV, sir.’ She spoke quietly, trying to temper his mood. ‘We can see that a hooded figure left the back entrance of the shop at nine minutes past four. We followed it as far as we could, but the person disappeared onto Jesus Green and we’ve not been able to locate where they exited after that. It appears that the figure is male but we can’t be sure at this stage.’

‘Did you say nine minutes past four?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right.’ Barrett’s mind began to race. According to the pathologist, Dennis Wade had died sometime soon after midnight. What had the killer been doing in the shop all that time?

‘We need more information on the figure spotted on CCTV. Get me height, approximate weight and anything else you can from the recording. I’m on Hobart Road. We are about to interview a Ms Campbell. I want that information on my desk when I return to the station.’ Barrett hung up.

‘Seems our killer spent a few hours in the company of the corpse, Joe.’ He turned to face Palmer who had been listening to the one-sided conversation intently.

‘Unusual,’ said Palmer as Barrett knocked on Jane Campbell’s green front door.

Jane lived in a small terraced house in the Romsey district of Cambridge, off Mill Road.

A skinny lady with frizzy brown hair opened the door cautiously.

‘DCI Barrett. I’m looking for Jane Campbell.’

‘I am she,’ the woman said opening the door wider and letting the officers into her small living room. ‘Excuse the mess.’

Palmer looked around, thinking it was an odd thing for Jane to have said. The place was immaculate. ‘We are here because of the murder of Dennis Wade.’