McAvoy nods, his eyes gentle. ‘And his involves a late night look at …’

‘At her,’ says Mrs Dash, gesturing in the general direction of the crime scene. ‘Can’t even be cross about it now, can I? She won’t have known he was there, I’ve no doubt of that. She wasn’t the type to flaunt herself, if you know what I mean. And I suppose, him looking at her like he did … I suppose it was helpful in a way, wasn’t it? I mean, that’s what’s brought you all out here.’

McAvoy sips his tea. It’s good stuff, from a caddy, and left to mash properly in a pot. He thinks, briefly, of home. Of Dad, telling his lads that anything worth doing were worth doing well. Thinks of Roisin, reading his leaves: the smudge of black pixels that spoke of true love born in fire. He has to snatch back the smile that threatens to grip his features. He pulls out his phone, looking at the growing number of missed calls. He is desperate to speak to her, and yet he cannot make himself answer when she rings. Nor can he make himself ring her. To do so, would be to make his suspicions become something more. He doesn’t want to be right. Not this time – not when it means she has done something so much worse than he feared when he awoke in the early hours.

‘You were friends?’ asks McAvoy, trying to concentrate.

‘Acquaintances, I suppose. He’s not keen on me getting too chummy with people.’ She nods again at the living room. ‘But she’s an interesting lady. My daughter, she set me up with a Facebook account and I found her on there. Palmist, crystal balls, all that stuff. Was a relief to find out what people were coming to the house for, if I’m honest. I had my suspicions it was a something a bit, well, not very nice, though she didn’t give off that kind of air. She was always friendly. Card at Christmas, offered to feed the fish if we were ever away – let us use the phone at her place when we came back from Wales and there’d been a bit of a flood and the electrics had gone. Just a nice, bubbly sort of a lady.’ She rubs her hands together, spinning her plain gold wedding ring. ‘You’re sure somebody’s done this to her? It couldn’t be an accident or something …’

‘We’re trying to understand that,’ says McAvoy, casting an eye around the kitchen. If not for the view, it would be insufferably bland. There’s a small ceramic swan on the windowsill and a bland picture of some wildflowers in a frame by the fridge, but it’s not a homely space. He feels for her, tucked away at the edge of the map with a man who makes her feel invisible, a man who gets his kicks watching the woman next door. He’s glad he doesn’t have to talk to Mr Dash. Isn’t sure he could stop himself shaking him by the ankle and seeing what secrets fell from his cardigan pockets. Pharaoh is outside, waiting for a call back from a former underling. Wilma Bradley is a DCI with West Mercia Constabulary. McAvoy doubts she’s forgotten Eva-Jayne Puck. Hopes to God she’s at least forgotten about him.