‘Ah, sorry to hear that.’ Gillard knew that now was not the time to ask searching questions, but Kirsty seemed to want to fill in the blanks anyway.

‘It was mutual,’ she said, closing off many of the other more speculative avenues. Even though the CSI officers work from a different building from CID, Kirsty was aware what a rumour mill Mount Browne was. ‘We’re still very good friends.’

In the final approach to the HQ car park she took a phone call. Her body language in his peripheral vision showed it was something important, and she turned to him. ‘Yes, and that’s confirmed is it?’ she asked, before ending the call.

‘That’s the lab. The DNA in the blood on the book spine matches the stains from the wall, and the DNA from Rissington Man’s teeth. Only one chance in ten million of an error.’

‘So Rissington Man was killed in Cleaver’s spare room.’

‘And Ozzy Blanchard wasn’t,’ she said.

‘The victim was murdered, buried in the garden and was later moved, minus a couple of fingers, to a new resting place by the river.’ Gillard slipped his Vauxhall into a space in Mount Browne’s car park. ‘I was hoping forensics would simplify this, but it hasn’t worked out that way.’ He and the young CSI technician entered the building, headed to the canteen, and joined the breakfast queue.

‘We still don’t know if Cleaver was involved,’ Kirsty said. She took her tray, loaded with melon, grapes and a grapefruit, and sat at a table. Gillard joined her, unloading his Danish pastry, croissant and bowl of fruit salad.

DC Carl Hoskins approached and dropped his jacket over a spare chair at the table, and stared at his boss’s expression.

‘Never mind, sir, it may never happen.’

‘I’m afraid it has. Someone was murdered in a spare room at Rev Cleaver’s home, and as I assume you’ve heard, it wasn’t Ozzy Blanchard.’

‘Yeah, someone planted that comb to try to put us off the scent.’

‘Yes.’ Gillard showed him the details of the email on his phone. ‘It’s not quite back to square one. Our dead guy, whoever he is, is not on the national DNA database either. But he is modern, that’s quite clear.’

‘So that means Ozzy Blanchard is still alive,’ Hoskins said.

‘Probably, but not guaranteed.’

Hoskins blew a sigh as he joined a queue at the counter to get his elevenses. Gillard spent the intervening three minutes emailing the members of his team to arrange a midday incident room meeting to consider the new evidence. When he looked up, he did a double-take. Hoskins had just sat down with a tray containing a portion of fruit salad and a grapefruit. The detective constable was known as the biggest salad-dodger in CID. To see him with fruit was like seeing a fish with a bicycle.