‘There’s Dundee cake in the tin,’ says Mrs Dash, bustling around her little kitchen, opening drawers, retrieving cake forks and pouring milk into a little white jug in the shape of a cow. ‘Oh, and biscuits. You’ll want biscuits. The lady, she mentioned being a little peckish. There are potatoes in the pan. I’ve got a good hand whisk. I don’t know if a Spanish omelette is really Spanish, but I can do my best …’

McAvoy lets his confusion show. ‘Spanish?’

‘Your partner. She’s Spanish, isn’t she? Or have I got that wrong? I don’t know the rules. Are you allowed to ask? We were in Tunbridge Wells for a wedding and were served by this lovely dark girl and I asked her where she was from and about three people told me off for being rude. I mean, it’s a conversation, isn’t it? I’m itching to know where you’re from, with that lovely accent.’

McAvoy blows on his tea. He can’t get his fingers through the handle of the teacup. Holds it between forefinger and thumb, as if taking a leper by the ear.

‘Detective Superintendent Pharaoh isn’t Spanish, to my knowledge,’ he says. ‘And I should imagine she would be grateful for whatever omelette you made for her, and I have no doubt it would be delicious. As for me, I’m from the Western Highlands. Loch Ewe, if you know. And both she, and I, are quite content with the drinks, thank you. Now, if perhaps …’

She stops, unable to think of anything she can do to keep herself busy and avoid focusing on the carnage that has occurred next door. Her husband is in the living room, having taken pills for his angina and a little something of his wife’s. He’s dozing, fitfully, in an armchair by the fire: adrift in a sea of cat teeth and ripped skin.

‘Mrs Dash, perhaps you could sit down for a moment and talk me through what happened, precisely? The initial report said your husband was watching out for a particular bird?’

Her lips become a line. She leans back against the sofa, her whole body stiff. She takes on the appearance of a tuning fork, vibrating at a harsh semi-tone. McAvoy says nothing. Lets her fill the silence. Catches the sound of something fat and frantic buzzing against glass. Remembers a time when he would have been unable to rest until he had freed the captive creature. Wonders what it says about him that these days, he can barely summon the strength.

‘He doesn’t think I know,’ mumbles Mrs Dash, nodding at the living-room door. ‘Bit pitiful, isn’t it? Bloody Peeping Tom. Do people still say that? Such an old-fashioned phrase, isn’t it? Like calling an outfit a “two-piece” or saying “mentally ill” instead of “loony”. And me upstairs in bed, willing to pay good money for as much as a kindly glance …’ She presses her lips harder together, wetness filling her eyes. She sniffs, demurely, against the back of her thin, mottled wrist. Holds back her tears. ‘The shine goes off it, after a while. Marriage, I mean. You tell yourself you’re happy just to be a unit that works, but then you read books and poems and switch on the TV and people are all pawing at each other as if they’re made of chocolate, and you can’t help but want some of that for yourself. We were never like that. Maybe we were but I don’t remember it. We’ve got our routine, I suppose …’