Joe can’t stop staring at them. Lydia is probably wondering where they are, but he doesn’t care. He’s transfixed by the spectacle of the dogs, like a herd coming together. Yet more are being let out of yet more police cars. There must be twenty of them.

Joe turns to look at Cathy. Together, they go around to the front of the building. They are acting suspiciously, but they can’t help it. They stand next to an orange tree that is so perfect and round it looks fake, the oranges hanging like lanterns. Joe lights up a roll-up.

He tries to look natural as the police file past. Then the media, news reporters with fluffy microphones looking for soundbites, looking for suspects. The pretence of all this. He’s going to have to keep it up forever. He can barely stand the thought of it.

‘We wanted this,’ he says to Cathy in a low voice when they’ve gone.

‘I know.’

She looks ashen now in the bright sunlight. She makes a flicking gesture with her fingers, and he hands her the cigarette he’s rolled, though she doesn’t smoke. He lights it for her while it’s in her mouth, both of them trying to manage with shaking hands. Their eyes meet, his face close to hers, but neither of them speaks.

‘Do you regret answering?’ he asks her.

She knows exactly what he means. She always does. Whether she will confide is another matter. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s Frannie.’

The police are letting the dogs off their leads and into the distance. Their tails are up. They block the sun, light and shadow, light and shadow, as they move towards the horizon.

‘They can’t smell below six feet,’ Cathy says quietly, when the police are out of earshot, and they’re alone again. ‘We thought it through.’

‘The blood,’ he mumbles around his cigarette.

‘Just have to hope she’s cleaned it up.’ Cathy holds her cigarette between her middle and ring fingers, close to the knuckle, like a seasoned smoker. When she puffs on it, her face is right next to her hand. ‘You look like a Mafia boss,’ Joe says with a tiny laugh borne out of a manic kind of anxiety at the situation they find themselves in rather than anything light.

Cathy throws him a wan smile.

Joe finishes the cigarette and scuffs it out in the dirt. His legs feel like he has been exercising, the muscles trembling with fear.

‘There’s no way we haven’t got his smell on us. On our drive … our clothes,’ Joe says, thinking aloud. ‘Can’t those dogs smell a treat about a mile off? I operated on one once, and he knew exactly where I was at all times.’

‘I’ve washed all the clothes,’ Cathy says. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of it. They are trained to smell decomposition. He was … he’d only just died. I think the scent is different.’

Joe nods. Relief rushes up through him. She’s got it. She’ll sort it. ‘You’re so fucking smart,’ he says to Cathy. ‘Can’t believe you’ve never found someone.’