Despite the darkroom he had, he denied the photos had ever existed, claiming Carol had invented them to cover up an affair she had been having, which was the real cause of their argument. He had confronted her with it, and she had attacked him. He had hit her in self-defence – and he apologized for it, he really felt truly sorry, he’d not meant to hurt her – and then fled the house, worried about the police.

In the end, she declined to press charges in exchange, Wynne suspected, for a quick and generous divorce and the chance to get as far away from Best as quickly as possible.

Wynne, though, asked around, and heard from more than one teenager – boys and girls – that they had seen him at the window with his camera.

He’s a creepy fucker, one girl said. Always lookin’ at you.

That in itself wasn’t a crime, but Wynne hadn’t forgotten it.

And now a fifteen-year-old girl was missing and she was going to look Best in the eye and ask him if he knew anything about it.

Maybe Mike Mullins knew nothing about the people who sold this stuff, but he was different to Best. The people who sold it needed Best. He was a consumer. And consumers of any commodity made it their business to know how to get hold of it. There were hidden networks, and she would have bet that Best knew all about them.

Best nodded towards the kitchen. Wynne and Edwards followed him through the door. He and Edwards sat down. Wynne stayed on her feet.

‘So,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Fine. This isn’t a social call, I take it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Any ideas?’ Wynne asked.

‘None.’

‘A girl has gone missing. She’s fifteen. Local.’

Best shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘You sure about that?’ Wynne stared at him. His demeanour was unassuming, meek, broken by life, but the look in his eyes belied it. They were cold and unflinching. He was, she saw, a dangerous man.

‘Hundred per cent,’ he said. He crossed his arms. He was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers. Behind him by the sink was a plate with some boiled vegetables and fish fingers on it.

‘Early for dinner,’ Wynne said.

‘I eat when I want. I’m hungry now.’

‘For fish fingers?’

‘I like them.’

‘Aren’t they kids’ food?’ Wynne said.

Best sighed. ‘They’re easy to cook, and I’m not fussy.’

Wynne placed a photo of Maggie on the table.

‘Recognize this girl?’ he said.

‘No. Never seen her before in my life.’

‘You sure? You sure she’s not the kind of girl you might have taken an interest in?’