It was impossible to imagine how Henry and Moira Lowther would be feeling now. Cooper wondered if he ought to offer to talk to them, and whether it would do any good.

As he locked up the Toyota and walked towards the building, he tried to analyse his own feeling, too. That was difficult enough, God knew. One part of him wanted to talk to the Lowthers in the hope that it might make some sense of their son’s death. But another part of him was afraid – afraid of what too much emotion could do. That was the shallower side of his character, he supposed; the scared and defensive side.

In the CID room, he found Gavin Murfin already at his desk. That was unusual in itself. Gavin never arrived at work before him, especially on a Saturday.

‘You know that the what’s-their-names are here?’ said Murfin when he saw Cooper. ‘The Lowthers.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘They’re in with Diane and the DI.’

‘There haven’t been any messages then?’

‘Not yet. If I were you, Ben, I’d find a reason to get out of the office as soon as possible. The DI can deal with it.’

‘Maybe.’

But Cooper took off his jacket and sat at his desk to see what he had to catch up with. There was nothing from Scenes of Crime, so no new information on the gun. But there was a copy of the full post-mortem report on Simon Nichols, alias Simcho Nikolov, complete with a set of photographs. He hadn’t really looked at Nichols too closely before, but guessed that he hadn’t been much prettier in life than he was in death. Not for the past few years, anyway. The marks left by the man’s lifestyle were etched deep into his face, just as surely as they’d ruined the interior of the caravan. Too much alcohol and not enough food. Too many cigarettes and not enough attention to hygiene.

Yet, when he studied Nichols’ face, Cooper could see that there was still a vestige of the man he’d once been. The bone structure was still there, broad and well-proportioned. A Bulgarian face, of course. He was Nikolov, not Nichols.

Cooper remembered the red phone box on the roadside in Bonsall Dale. It seemed likely that Nikolov had phoned Rose Shepherd from there. And then there had been that final phone call, made from an assassin’s mobile to lead her into his sights. So, in a way, John Lowther wasn’t the only one who’d heard voices. Miss Shepherd had been hearing them, too – voices that had led her to her death.

Suddenly aware of someone standing at his desk, Cooper gave a start and looked up guiltily, not knowing who to expect. But it was Gavin Murfin.

‘I brought you a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘Since you’re obviously not going to take my advice.’

‘Thanks, Gavin.’