And Swann’s crime was cemented in infamy when it was given a name, thanks to a photograph taken at his ramshackle home. His dilapidated property was called Baden Place. But when a journalist took a photo of the burnished name plate above the front door, the ‘en’ in Baden was hidden by a creeper. The image became notorious across the world, and the farmhouse became for ever known as ‘the Bad Place’.

Sasha’s mobile rang, making her jump. Cleaning her sticky fingers with a wet wipe, she fished the phone out of her bag. ‘Hi, Mum, how’s things?’

‘The place is a tip,’ said Ursula. ‘I don’t understand how you can live in such a state.’

Sasha squeezed the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she typed ‘Bad Place images’ into the browser.

‘If it’s so terrible, don’t let me stop you getting out the vacuum.’

‘I have already, as you well know, and the hoover bag is packed as solid as your father’s bowels.’

Sasha winced. ‘There are some bags in the cellar.’

‘I’m not going down there,’ said Ursula dismissively. ‘The steps are too steep. I’ll be discovered hours later, groaning on the floor like those silly grannies in adverts for panic buttons.’

‘Then put your feet up. Kev can get them when he gets home.’

Sasha scrolled down dozens of images of Swann’s remote farmhouse. Saw police vans and crime scene tape; the overgrown entrance to a lane; an aerial photo taken above the countryside, a big red arrow pointing to Swann’s home on scrubland at the edge of a dense wood.

‘I can’t live in a mess,’ said Ursula. ‘That may be what your dad desires to do in his remaining days, but it’s not for me. I’ll go and buy some.’

More images. A pair of overweight detectives outside the house; men and women in forensic suits. Sasha remembered standing at the perimeter of the crime scene as support vans and emergency vehicles came in and out. It was a long and exhausting shift, the black night fading to drab grey morning, and she didn’t leave the scene till noon the following day.

‘Why don’t you do that?’ said Sasha. ‘And get yourself a nice coffee.’

‘Why would I want to waste money on a coffee when I can have a perfectly good cup here. You’re basically paying for froth.’

There were photos of the kids the morning after they had escaped the Bad Place. Gaunt, dirty, with wide, frightened eyes. Sasha recognized Michelle and Karin, Lydia and Paul. And there was a school photo of a pretty girl in a smart school uniform – Becky, the girl who didn’t get away.

Then Sasha scrolled down to three images of a shy-looking man in glasses with orange lenses, and leaned back.

‘Are you phoning for any reason, Mum?’