‘Never been here before. Is it even on our patch?’

‘Right on the edge. Another hundred yards and Kirklees could’ve had it. Pity, eh?’

He managed the slightest of smiles. ‘Why? For the stats? You think I’m not gonna get a result?’

She failed to conceal a momentary flush of embarrassment. It was quite clearly what she thought.

‘I mean, it’ll be more difficult to get witnesses, won’t it?’ she said, glancing over at the car.

‘Yep, and resources,’ he added as he struggled into his own white suit and overshoes. ‘Anyway, while we’re here let’s do the best we can. A life’s a life. OK to go in?’

‘Yes, but no touching. But I bet you knew that!’

He acknowledged her attempt at humour and turned towards the remains of the Toyota.

‘A life’s a life,’ she whispered to the uniform next to her.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said.

Joe heard them both over his shoulder and ignored them.

He circled the car. The ground was muddy underfoot where the firefighters had done their work, and the sound of water dripping from the car was just about audible in the calmness of the scene. The maroon paintwork was still visible on one side, but not on the other or at the back, where the tank had blown and burnt itself out. Inside, the fire had destroyed everything. Seats down to the springs, the plastic dashboard bubbled and deformed like a massive block of half-melted chocolate.

There was a bitter, acrid smell, and some residual heat was still coming from the front end. The passenger door was fully open. He paused before looking inside. Was this the moment when you prepared to meet death head-on? It was so long since he’d been directly involved in a murder that he hardly remembered.

Then he looked. There was a body in the footwell, recognizable largely because he was expecting it. Otherwise, he might have assumed it was a sack of rubbish, or an off-cut of carpet, rolled up and burnt. It had a shiny, irregular surface, where the fabric of the clothes had melted in the heat. Only after a minute or so did he make out the position of the body, its head and one arm on the seat, the rest on the floor. The skull, like everything else, was black, but as he looked harder he could make out a filigree of red cracks where the scalp had contracted and split. There was the outline of a cheekbone, an ear, shrivelled to the size of a walnut, and the messy remains of an eye socket.

‘Morning, Joe,’ came a voice from behind him. ‘Like the coffee!’

A SOCO stood there, a transparent evidence bag in each hand, grinning.

‘Hi, Mike,’ Joe said, looking at the bags. ‘Coffee?’

‘Morning, Joe. Y’know, coffee?’

‘Oh, right, yes. Those the victim’s?’

‘Craig Shaw’s the name. Was.’

‘Yes, I know. The fire?’