He leans back against the trunk of a tree that shields Dymphna Lowell’s property from the road, and gazes away into the endless nothing. Tries to centre himself. To breathe. He imagines Roisin’s touch, her fingers and thumbs kneading his temple, her soft song at his throat. Pictures Lilah, her little hand in his. Thinks of Fin, and the deep-soul sadness in his big brown eyes. Tells himself to focus on this. On the dead woman in the house. On finding some kind of justice for those bereaved by this cruel, merciless act.

He focuses on the near-empty air. If he squints, he can make out a couple of stick-figures in the distance, making slow, windblown progress across the headland, following the curve of the coastline. From time to time, he hears a snatch of birdsong, carried on the cold, saw-toothed wind. He has his back to the other officers, huddled in the protection of the patrol cars and specialist vehicles. He wants to feel this place properly – to stare into the gale and imagine how it must feel to live here, in the final house before the land runs out.

Miles and miles in every direction, empty fields grooved by the teeth and tyres of tractors or neatly parted by old drainage ditches. And the Humber, slapping its brown waters against the mud and sand over at the little horseshoe-shaped bay called Stone Creek. There are fishing boats and pleasure craft moored up out there, he remembers, from a visit, long before. Barely a soul around. A man with murder in his heart could approach from the water. A mile or two of tramping across easy fields and he’d find himself at the rear of Dymphna Lowell’s house. He could have left the same way …

McAvoy sucks in his lower lip, his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his big woollen overcoat. He’s got the collar turned up, the way Roisin likes it. The material rubs at his beard, and slaps him in the face whenever he turns side on to the wind.

‘Could have come in from the sea,’ says Pharaoh, appearing at his side. She hands him a coffee in a thermal travel-cup. It matches hers. He takes a sip, grateful. It’s hot chocolate, with three sugars. He can smell the brandy in Pharaoh’s coffee. Chooses not to mention it. ‘Local boys say there’s been a few burglaries out this way. Farm equipment, stuff taken from washing lines, that sort of thing. Andy had a chat with a jogger who said they’re a menace, which is a bit rich coming from a jogger. Tried to sell Stefan on the idea of a holiday home.’

McAvoy, grateful to have something to focus on, pulls out his phone as a thought bubbles up. Changes his position to show the screen to Pharaoh as he navigates his way to a property site and thumbs in the location. ‘Three empty on this road, all for sale, and over the way there’s plenty to rent. Caravans at Patrington too. Same number. Bit early yet but if it’s all one property portfolio …’