Pharaoh nods, understanding. ‘They might have some security footage – maybe even a chap or two doing the occasional drive-by. If they’ve got a security system we might get lucky with some CCTV.’

‘We can but hope,’ says McAvoy. ‘I’ll chase it up.’

‘What’s the name of that place?’ asks Pharaoh, pointing into the featureless expanse.

‘Stone Creek,’ says McAvoy, following her gaze out across the shimmering fields to the place where the land bleeds in to the sky.

‘Sounds lovely. Poetic, even.’

‘Not much there, but nice for a walk. Bleak, but in a good way.’

‘Add the owners and skippers to the house-to-house,’ says Pharaoh, trying to light a long black cigarette without setting fire to her hair, which whips and coils upon air. ‘Sergeant from Withernsea says there’s an old World War One battery down the ways, a little. Big blocky things surrounded by a little bit of woodland, and very popular with the teenagers looking for a place to be teenage.’

McAvoy is about to volunteer to do it himself, but stops, aware that Pharaoh no doubt has something else planned for him. He looks down at her. Tries not to loom.

‘Could be absolutely no connection at all, of course,’ says Pharaoh, grinning triumphantly at the tip of her cigarette as it begins to smoulder. ‘And we’re going to treat it as such, yes? We’re going to brief the team about the similarities to an unsolved case from Scunthorpe a dozen years back, and we’re going to be quite clear that’s a line of enquiry. But we are not, and I repeat not, going to tell people that there’s a good chance you’ve come into contact with our killer before. And you are sure as shit not going to tell anybody that he’s previously tried to kill your bloody precious wife.’

McAvoy feels as though snakes are uncoiling in his gut. He feels clammy. Ill. ‘But if it’s him, if he’s somehow doing this …’

‘And why would he be, Hector?’ she asks, gently. ‘He was set upon the Teagues by the Heldens. He missed his chance with Roisin, and took apart a poor woman who happened to make a bit of money reading crystal balls. If this is his handiwork, where has he been? And why target this woman, out here, in the armpit of nowhere? I mean yeah, we might discover a connection to your Roisin’s world, but there’s literally nothing here to suggest that from the off. More likely we’ve got a pissed-off punter who didn’t like what she read in their tea leaves or saw in her crystal ball.’

‘And the injuries?’ asks McAvoy. ‘I’m not pre-empting anything, but the similarities are …’

‘Similar, yes,’ says Pharaoh, pushing her hair back from her face. She gives a tut of irritation as her phone rings. Pulls out her mobile and gives a sharp, hard-faced laugh at the screen. ‘Speak of the devil.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your Roisin,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Wonders if you’re in a bad signal zone as she’s been trying to call …’