‘Any sign of him?’ he asks, licking his finger and turning the chocolate stain into a smear.

‘Doing his thing,’ mutters Pharaoh, hoping this will be enough to stave off further enquiries. She opens the bottom drawer of her desk and removes a plastic bottle. A hard white straw has been belted into an aperture at the neck. It looks a lot like a very simplistic bong. She rummages in her bag, finds her cigarettes. Lights up. When her lungs are full, she blows the smoke down the tube and into the bottle, where it swirls, briefly, like the ghost of a nightmare. She keeps the pad of her finger pressed over the straw. When she first started in the police, she truly never would have believed that the life of a smoker would come to this.

‘She was seeing somebody,’ says Daniells, flicking through the papers. ‘Nothing serious. Chap called Keith Bennett. Forty-four. Lives in one of the caravans at Patrington Haven. An on-off thing, apparently. Sophie Kirkland is with him now. Says he was shocked but not emotional. Sometimes it takes a while to sink in, doesn’t it? Anyway, hasn’t heard from her for over a week, but that’s not unusual apparently. He’d sent her a couple of messages but when she didn’t reply he didn’t push it. Hadn’t even started to worry.’

‘And the daughter?’

‘Same,’ says Daniells. ‘Grant broke the news. Again, she says Mum valued her privacy and was pretty independent. Liked her own space. She had Facebook friends. Very busy on different forums and didn’t seem lonely. Loved her cats.’

‘Feeling was mutual, I’m sure,’ says Pharaoh, crossing to the window and freeing the captive smoke into the cold air. She turns back to Daniells. ‘I can see you’ve got something else to tell me, Andy. Don’t build up your part, son, just spit.’

Daniells smiles, wide. ‘Found this,’ he says, handing across a printout of a newspaper report from the Hexham Courant, dated April, 2015. The headline reads: VILLAGE STUNNED BY ‘SENSELESS’ SLAYING. ‘Rachael Gladstone,’ says Daniells, while Pharaoh scans the article. ‘Aged fifty-eight. Lived in a tiny little place in Weardale, which I’ve never even heard of. Village called Edmundbyers. Nearest place of any size is Consett, but it really is the middle of nowhere. She was attacked in her own home. Little cottage on the outskirts of the village. Article doesn’t say the cause of death but I’ve requested the case files from the locals.’

‘Says “stabbed to death” here,’ mutters Pharaoh, finishing the article. She swallows, a nasty taste in her mouth. Scowls.

‘You saw?’ asks Daniells, cautiously.

‘Yes, Andy, I’ve mastered the art of reading, thank you.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

She chews on her lower lip. Looks at the picture that accompanies the article. Small, dark-haired, bright blue eyes full of sparkle. Considers Rachael Gladstone and mulls over the snippets of information offered up by the article. She was a mother of three grown-up children. She worked in child protection, prior to early retirement. Was active in the community. And she was a fortune teller. Attended local spiritual fairs, offering Tarot readings and palmistry. Offered phone consultations and occasionally performed readings from her home. At the time of the newspaper article, police were asking witnesses to come forward.