Pharaoh laughs, an exasperated little bark. Reaches into her jacket pocket and retrieves her little black cigarettes. Lights one, slowly, and blows out a thick cloud of smoke.

‘Guv? Boss? You there? The ACC is looking for you. I’ve told the sarge. And the press office is fielding endless calls. Is there going to be a briefing? Sophie Kirkland just reported in. Followed up on a doorstep call by a PCSU. Reports that the victim’s partner was mouthing off in the Burns Head, reckoned she was seeing somebody else. Didn’t seem ready to do murder over it but he wasn’t exactly happy neither.’

‘Name?’ asks Pharaoh.

‘According to Sophie, he reckons it’s somebody from the letting agency that dealt with her house. Based in Patrington with another office in Withernsea.’ He stops, something awkward in the pause. ‘Called him Marathon Man when he was giving out about it. Mr Fucking Fit was another charming little pet name …’

‘Go on, Andy,’ says Pharaoh, as Roisin hangs up on her husband and sits back in her seat, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks.

‘I saw a runner this morning,’ says Daniells, as the rain starts to come down harder. ‘When I arrived at the scene there was a jogger outside the cordon. He had a Covid mask and those big sunglasses that athletes wear. He asked a few questions about it all and started trying to sell me and Stefan a holiday home. Didn’t seem unusual at the time but I’ve kind of been mulling it over and, well, all things considered I thought I should maybe see if I could track him down. I’ve been on the company website and there are only two male employees and he doesn’t fit the bill, but then, the photos look pretty dated. I was thinking of ringing the agency and asking some questions but then I thought there was a chance you’d stab me in the face if I didn’t run it by you, so, well, I’m running it by you.’

Pharaoh takes a drag on her cigarette. Stares through the rain-speckled glass. The sky is darkening; clouds curling like great twists of damp rope. She closes an eye, trying to move the pieces around inside her head. ‘Who owns the company?’ she asks. ‘If you chat to some office junior then chances are they’ll have no bloody Poker face and be straight onto their colleague and telling him to get themselves prepared. It’ll be on Facebook in no time.’

There is a rustle of pages, a sudden muffled sound as Daniells moves his phone beneath his lower chin. ‘Seth Brimley,’ says Daniells. ‘Address out Fitling way.’

‘Fitling?’

‘Pig farm, tea room, near Burton Constable Hall …’

‘Far from Cottingham?’ asks Pharaoh. ‘Far from Sunk Island?’

‘Erm, about the middle really,’ says Daniells. ‘I’ll send you some details if you want to take it.’

‘Sure. Tell the ACC something urgent came up but we’ll both be in this afternoon.’

‘Sure. Oh, the sarge says he knows what happened to your anarchist, by the way.’