‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ Hirsch said. As if it would never have occurred to him to do any actual investigating.

Late Thursday afternoon now, and Hirsch straightened the Wyeth print, dusted, vacuumed, wondered if he could bother the old woman next door for a bunch of her roses. It was all to tamp down his nerves: he’d been rattled by Hansen, and to a lesser degree, Roesch. Hansen’s stance was simple: everyone’s a suspect. Roesch was warmer and more agreeable—and she’d delivered him a little jolt of attraction that made him feel mildly guilty and noticeably more cheerful. And she didn’t like Hansen: join the club. Her presence lingered in the shabby little room.

He called Wendy’s mobile. Katie answered: they were in the car, heading back from the river, the twilight tricky, kangaroos on the road. Then Wendy’s voice could be heard in the background; Katie passed it on: ‘Speak later tonight, maybe tomorrow.’

‘Safe trip,’ Hirsch said.

Later tonight came and went. At ten o’clock Hirsch dragged on a T-shirt and surf shorts for bed and heard a knock on the street door. Vita Roesch stood there, still vivid in her summer dress but wearing a cotton jacket over it that gave her a stance of authority. Hirsch glanced past her at the hire car blocking his driveway. ‘Senior sergeant.’

‘It’s just me,’ she said, anticipating his question. ‘I need a few more minutes of your time.’

Back to the sitting room, where she took off her jacket and the room brightened. Feeling clumsy, Hirsch said, ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Hotel in Redruth—forget the name.’

Taking charge, she perched on one end of the sofa and indicated the other. ‘Sit, please, Constable Hirschhausen.’

He sat, and her long legs swivelled towards him. He could read everything or nothing into it, but she was all business as she took out her iPhone, poked and swiped, and proffered it.

‘My bona fides. Recognise anyone?’

A photograph of Roesch with Denise Rennie. An office somewhere, shirt-sleeved men and women at desks in the background. Hirsch said, ‘You worked together? She was in the police?’

‘Yes and no. We were colleagues—friends, I’d say. Denise was a civilian—an intelligence analyst. The Covert Support Unit. We worked a big case together.’

‘What happened?’

Roesch considered him for an uncomfortable moment. ‘I’m about to fill you in a little more. Nothing I say can leave this room, understood?’

There’s something about Hansen, Hirsch thought. He said, ‘Okay,’ wondering how much of the real story he’d get.

‘Denise’s actual surname wasn’t Rennie or Redding, it was Reid.’

‘Okay.’

‘She was due to give evidence at a series of trials; her life was threatened, and we placed the family in witness protection. The location was compromised, her husband was killed, and she ran—disappeared with the children.’

‘Who were they hiding from?’