There was just one chance.

He opened the driver side rear door, folded the rear seat forward and shone his lamp on the rear, to a crease marking where the leatherette bordered a carpet-style fabric, one that matched the floor of the boot, and when folded down would extend that space.

‘What are you looking for?’ Morag asked from behind him.

‘Not sure really.’ He hadn’t heard her approach and had assumed she was still inside the house. He tore off a hand-sized piece of gel tape and took a lift from the upper rear portion of the seat, pressing it into the crevice. He didn’t want to tell her that what he was hoping to find was a smear of mud, or if he was really lucky, a fingerprint. Only the most thorough of car valet cleanings would involve wiping the fabric back of the rear seats.

He was quite hopeful about dirt. Anything that might have been caught on a brake lever or handlebar if the bicycle had been stowed back in the vehicle after the assault. If the assailant had any forensic nous, he would have chucked away not only the bike, but any clothing and footwear he had been wearing at the time of the attack, rather than bring it back into the vehicle. But you never knew. Criminals did stupid things. That was how most of them got caught. Ingenious detective work did the trick in only a minority of cases.

He was still packing away the tape and gloves when the police flatbed truck arrived to take away the Toyota. Morag stood next to him, watching them winch the vehicle gradually onto the back. She trod from one slippered foot to the other as the chill evening breeze gathered. ‘It feels a bit sad actually. That was the first car I ever owned. I had many delightful summer days when Harry and I used to slip off to country lanes.’

‘To make use of all that space in the back?’

She smiled. ‘Have you never done that, detective chief inspector?’

‘Many years ago.’ His thoughts strayed away to his first important girlfriend, Liz, when he was just eighteen. Now there was a story. Happy and sad. For another time.

The truck driver waved a cheery goodbye, and after double-checking his load, drove off.

Gillard bagged up the tape and returned with the evidence to his car.

‘When will I get the car back?’ she asked, following him with a slap of slippers on the tarmac.

‘It should only be a few days,’ he said, as he climbed into the driving seat. He slid the window down. She was standing there, leaning towards the open window, arms folded tightly around her against the evening chill, red hair flaring in the breeze. She was beginning to shiver.

‘I should have offered you a sandwich. You must be starving. And you didn’t finish your coffee.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Morag Fairburn looked like a normal young woman, bright, caring, hard-working but not overly ambitious. She was obviously unlucky in love but still optimistic. Everything she said seemed fair and reasonable. Yet some part of him remained troubled. Maybe he shared with Prisha Roy some deep-seated organ of doubt, which niggled and grumbled at whatever Morag said or did.