‘That’s Aidan Tickett, the guy with the ginger crewcut?’ Gillard recalled that the man Christopher Tickett had murdered in 1982 was a farmer called Willow. Vicky’s father perhaps? It would be odd if the two families got along.

‘Yeah. Aidan was a man short for rebuilding the embankment after the recent flooding. It wasn’t tricky work, just digging out at the water’s edge and heaping it up behind, but he was behind schedule. I had done about fifty metres of it that morning when we discovered the body.’

‘And who actually made the discovery?’

‘Aidan was there, with the Greenpiss surveyor.’

‘What—?’

‘Sorry, it’s just our name for the water company.’ She smiled. ‘They saw the body in the hole I’d just dug.’

If she was upset before, she certainly seemed to have recovered now. That wasn’t necessarily odd. A harried mother has little time for reflection.

‘You’d been working on the embankment earlier in the week?’

‘Yes. Monday was just practice, and the next three days I carried on under Aidan’s supervision. I enjoyed it. Makes a change from changing nappies.’

Gillard was impressed with the woman’s adaptability. ‘I’ll write this up as a basic statement and get you to sign it later.’

She nodded. ‘Any idea who it is?’ she said.

‘Not yet. I’m sure you’ll get to hear. Look, I heard there was an accident at the flyover earlier this year, involving a man who worked for the water company.’

‘That’s right. They found his car in the river, but never found his body. Do you think it could be him?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind.’ Gillard wished he’d earned a pound for every time he’d trotted out the stock police phrase. On most occasions, of course, it was accurate.

The woman was staring out of the window. ‘I feel terrible, as if I’d killed whoever it was. Stupid, isn’t it?’

‘It’s entirely natural.’ He started to pack up his notes. The door burst open and a boy of about seven ran in, dressed in a plastic Viking helmet and furry boots. He made warlike sounds as he clattered through the chairs, slaying imaginary foes.

‘Callum, I’ve told you before. Calm down!’ Vicky bellowed. The boy hurtled back out, slamming the door loudly enough to shake the woodwork. She turned back to Gillard. ‘It’s war, every day. He’s big for his age, and so boisterous. Now he’s furious because I won’t let him see Game of Thrones. It’s not suitable for seven-year-olds. Too much bonking.’

‘I’ve not seen it,’ he said.

‘I suppose your kids would be grown up?’

‘Something I never got round to,’ Gillard said. As he said it, he thought of Sam and her two miscarriages in the last couple of years. He felt a pang.