He disappeared without another word. Joe walked across to the old stone hearth and stood in front of it, feeling the warmth of the fire against his legs and watching the ever-changing hues of orange and yellow as they spun and twisted into one another. He’d done the same thing hundreds of times in his grandma’s house, when the patterns of flames amid the glowing coals had become red dragons and swirling orange phantoms. That was before he knew what the human soul was capable of. These days he preferred not to descend too far into the Inferno.

Turner reappeared, two sheets of printed paper in his hand.

‘Here you are. Full member list of the Patriot League, and the same for the discussion group. I’ve included all the addresses and phone numbers where I have them. Most are here.’

Joe scanned the name lists, then folded the sheets and slotted them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘This is evidence, you know?’

‘That sounds like a threat! You do know that I’m a—’

‘A lawyer, yes, I know.’ An hour’s sleep was all he’d managed but he held back his impatience, took a breath. ‘The investigation is now covering two murders. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, any failure to cooperate at this stage will be noted.’

Turner was unimpressed.

‘Another drug pusher, was it?’

Joe couldn’t be bothered.

‘Try the Kirklees District Police Twitter feed.’

Turner made a show of searching on his phone. Joe watched, and it occurred to him how often our first response to any kind of event now involves staring at a tiny, hand-held device. We consult technology like the ancient Greeks used to seek the truth at the Deltic Oracles, as Bridgette might say. Only now the oracles sit in data warehouses and the language they speak is the aggregated squawk of a billion supplicants who already know the answer to everything.

Shaw and Beverage: were the deaths of a drug dealer and a rapist-cum-thief worth the cost of a police investigation? A majority opinion would already have emerged on social media. And let’s face it, he told himself as his exhausted brain struggled to maintain any kind of rationality, it’s the public who pay for the police. Perhaps they should decide.

‘Can I offer you some tea?’ Turner said, putting his phone down on the large circular table in the centre of the room. There was a breakfast setting for one, complete with a hefty brown teapot, plus several Sunday papers: the Sunday Telegraph, the Yorkshire Post.

‘It might need a bit of freshening up.’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Tell me, Mr Turner, where were you last night?’

Turner raised his eyebrows.

‘Really? You suspect me of doing that?’ he asked, gesturing to the phone. ‘Murdering rapists is hardly my thing, officer.’