Brian Mullen hesitated for a long time outside the front door of number 32. Fry gave him space. She reminded herself that it was the first time he’d seen his home since the fire; in fact, the first time he’d seen it in daylight since he left the house for a night out with Jed Skinner.

‘Take your time, sir.’

‘I’m all right.’

Mullen seemed to regard her consideration as a spur to action. He stepped forward, and was guided into the house via the approach path, through the plastic tape marking the boundary of the crime scene. He almost stumbled in the hallway, as if he was suddenly lost and didn’t know which doorway to turn into.

Fry wondered if he even recognized the place as his own home. There was almost nothing left of the original décor now. The wallpaper was blackened, the furniture charred embers. Items that would have been familiar to Mullen had been removed completely during the forensic examination. Instead, the rooms contained these strange, colourful little displays. Crime-scene flags and disposable photo markers, dozens of white squares with reference codes written on them. The old film set was in the middle of being transformed for a new production.

One of the SOCOs went by carrying another pack of markers. Had they used a hundred in here already? Fry watched him unpack the flat, heavy-duty card, folding and locking the pieces into shape for use with the flags.

‘There were some toys and other items near the source of the fire,’ she said. ‘Could you identify them for us, sir?’

Fry showed him the photographs and the exact locations where the items had been found. They included the melted Barbie doll and the remains of the PlayStation console. Then there was the blackened Monopoly board – charred piles of fake money, and red and green blobs that had once been hotels and houses.

She knew this would be painful for him. But Mullen did as he was asked, fingering the photos as if they were mementoes of a holiday he vaguely remembered. He stood in the middle of the sitting room, balancing uneasily on the stepping plates because he’d been told not to touch anything or stand on the carpet.

‘I’ve never seen this before,’ he said.

‘What is it, sir?’

He tapped one of the photographs with a finger. ‘This thing. It looks like a kangaroo.’

Fry took it from him and checked the scene inventory.

‘It was logged in as a wooden dinosaur.’

‘It doesn’t belong here.’

‘Are you sure? It’s been damaged by the fire.’

‘A wooden dinosaur, you say?’

‘According to the crime-scene examiners, it’s made from varnished walnut, with leather ears. It would have stood about six inches tall in its original condition.’