I whisk up to Lockhart and, as he stands there facing Inspector Barker, the file in both hands, I concentrate as hard as I can and I think a name into his ear, his head, his brain.

Leyla.

Lockhart gives no sign that he has heard anything but there is a momentary pause, as if something has only just occurred to him. ‘Sir, about the other case. I’ve checked the PNC and I’ve spoken to Cambridgeshire Constabulary. Only one thing came up. That doctor, Matthew Goodison, the one who made that odd remark when I went to the hospital. Three years ago, they were called out to a place he was sharing with a Helen Lovegrove. Neighbour reported shouting and banging. The girlfriend comes to the door and swears she’s fine and nothing is wrong. When they get back, they record it as a no-crime domestic.’

Barker looks at Lockhart with an expression that says, And …?

‘Well, I’ve pretty much drawn a blank on Lisa Evans but I’d like to try one last thing.’

Inspector Barker wrinkles his nose and sniffs, and looks at PC Lockhart and thinks that although he loves his three grown-up daughters and his four grandchildren, he could imagine nothing that would have made him more proud than having a son like Lockhart, because even though he’s a skinny, brainy type who eats all those sugary foods when he shouldn’t, there’s something calm and dogged about him, and it’s a sort of bravery. It’s a quality that is easier to recognise than describe but it’s no less valuable for that. He folds his arms, high up on his chest, his report briefly forgotten, and stares challengingly at Lockhart, who stares back waiting for instruction. Inspector Barker sniffs, then dismisses the young PC with no more than a brief nod of assent.

22

Easter was not far off. School would break up next week. Our trip to Venice was booked for the summer half term. I held on to these three facts as if they were ropes made of creepers and I was dangling above a rainforest canyon.