He’s trying to make himself useful. Has had as much of a look around as he feels able without contaminating the scene. He has squeezed himself into a white suit and blue booties and is making sure to step lightly. Things will be done properly come the morning light. The science officers are on their way; the dog unit too. He has personally called each member of the Serious and Organized Unit and told them that for the next twenty-four hours at least, nothing else matters. An extra van-load of uniformed officers are already milling around outside, setting up the perimeter of the crime scene and closing the road. The houses here are too spread out to warrant a door-to-door search during the hours of darkness but every resident of this secluded, windswept road will be questioned before breakfast.

‘Where are the cats now?’ asks Pharaoh, quietly.

‘Bolted,’ says Grover, on sentry by the front window. ‘Soon as the uniforms gained entry. Straight out the back.’

‘Lovely job for somebody,’ says Pharaoh, arching her back. She looks around her, taking stock of a vacated life. The little living room is a pleasingly haphazard affair: a mish-mash of classics, retro and the gaudily new. The carpet is a gaudy swirl of burgundy and red, offsetting walls covered in cream wood chip. There is a yellow patch on the ceiling above the high-backed armchair, which still carries the imprint of a previous occupant’s rump. A glass ashtray sits atop a tower of magazines on the floor. The three-piece suite is wood-framed, with squashy, battered cushions. One is more threadbare than the others, the hem half worn away. A person taller than Dymphna’s five feet two inches has spent long enough sitting here to wear it away. Along one wall, imitation brickwork surrounds an imitation fireplace, designed to look like an old-fashioned stove. Each nook and alcove is home to different crystals. The light catches in their edges and shallows; a dazzling display of soft reds, purples and blues; as if sunlight is cascading through stained glass and pitching radiance onto a church floor. There are chunky frames on the wall, showing off a mismatched array of watercolours, photographs, certificates and prints. Pride of place above the fire is a huge print of a grinning bride, barefoot on a white rug, a plump, blue-eyed child returning her smile and throwing a handful of petals and confetti into the air. The little girl from the picture is centre-stage in most of the photographs: wrapped up in a thick red coat on a muddy path, or sitting bareback on a Shetland pony, delighted to be outside – up past her bedtime in grubby pyjamas.

Grover is distractedly examining the little pile of books by the TV. ‘Big reader,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve had nowt new to read since they stopped printing the Argos catalogue and the missus said I couldn’t take my phone with me to the toilet …’

‘Grover,’ says Pharaoh, pointedly. ‘The cats. It needs doing.’