‘Yes, the dead woman’s brother, Mr John Lowther.’

‘Where were his prints?’

‘Oh, kitchen, bathroom, sitting room. Some of his were on the children’s toys that we salvaged. I expect he used to spend some time playing uncle with the kids, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘That’s probably it.’

The engaged sign was showing on the door of Interview One. Inside, John Lowther seemed to be sweating. Damp patches had appeared under his armpits, and his glasses were slipping on his nose. He looked like a man caught performing some shameful act. Yet all he was doing was sitting in a police interview room, waiting for the questions.

With Cooper sitting in to observe, Fry began by asking Lowther to confirm his name, age and address. Then she looked at him, momentarily unsure how to approach the interview, to get him talking.

‘I gather your address is an apartment, sir?’

‘Yes, it’s a new development in Matlock. They converted an old will, I mean mill. It’s rather nice.’

‘I see. Do you own the apartment, Mr Lowther?’

‘It’s a nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-year lease. With nine hundred and ninety-seven years left to run. Less two years, you see. But it’s no loss.’

Fry frowned. ‘Right. And you’re an actuary by profession?’

‘– confession? Yes, I have very intensive experience in the field.’

‘Do you?’

‘I worked in Leeds, in West Yorkshire, for three years. But I left that job a year ago.’

‘So you’re not employed at the moment?’

He smiled. ‘You might say I’m resting. There’s not so much work for actuaries around these ports.’

‘I see.’

Fry had never felt so unsure of anyone before. She could hear herself saying ‘I see’ too much, a clear indication to anyone listening that she hardly understood a thing that Lowther was saying. Did he recognize that, too? Was it a deliberate ploy on his part to disrupt her interview technique? If so, it was very subtle. But it was working.

Suddenly, Lowther seemed to stare past her at something on the wall.

‘Is there a dog here somewhere?’

Fry didn’t know what to say. She looked at Cooper to see how he was reacting, but he was quite still, watching carefully.

She paused to gather her thoughts before her next question. But Lowther wouldn’t allow a pause.

‘One of my neighbours has a dog. A cross-bred Alsatian. Long-haired, shaggy – you know? All the time I’ve lived in the apartment, I’ve never heard it bark. Not even when the binmen come in through the back gate.’

‘Why does that worry you, sir?’

‘How do you know what’s a dog, and what isn’t? Dogs are domesticated wolves. But wolves don’t bark. So if a dog doesn’t bark, is it actually a wolf? It’s a question of identity, you see.’

‘Mr Lowther, when did you last see your sister?’