‘What about everything she knew about me?’

‘It seems that most of it is in the public domain. As you say she probably found out about your wife’s pregnancy from your aunt,’ she sighed. ‘I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing here.’

‘It’s quite unsettling.’

The woman laughed. ‘I’ve got no doubt of that, but you should be aware that courts are extremely reluctant to take action without a great deal more evidence of persistent unwanted contact.’

The Gillards’ home was for sale for several months, with the few offers made either being withdrawn soon afterwards or pitched too low. The estate agent said a couple of potential buyers had mentioned worries about damp, even though nothing untoward had shown up on surveys. Sam took time off work to host the next showing, to a middle-aged woman who had enthused about the place on her first visit. This time she seemed hesitant and asked about the ‘persistent damp’. Sam denied there was any, and wondered why she was asking.

‘I’d just heard that it was a bit of an issue,’ the woman said, her eyes flicking across to the lounge window through which Trish’s bungalow could be seen.

‘Did you by any chance speak to the woman who lives opposite?’ Sam asked.

‘Erm. Yes, when I parked outside last time, there was a note left on my windscreen saying “Important information for buyers of No 12.” So I rang the number and this elderly woman told us about the damp issues.’

‘There aren’t any damp issues. She’s just a troublemaker,’ Sam said.

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t doubt it. But I’d prefer not to live opposite someone who would do something like that, so I’ll not be making an offer. I’m sorry.’

Colin Hodges’ funeral took place in Croydon crematorium on a briskly cold April morning a month after his death. After the celebrant had given the eulogy, DC Carl Hoskins read out a whole series of off-colour jokes which he said reflected the character of his dear departed mate. His colleagues smiled through this litany of bad humour, and even his wife Joan chuckled at one or two, while wiping away the tears. The coffin slid behind the curtain to the refrain of Monty Python’s Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

Later, while Gillard had said his goodbyes and was preparing to leave, he could smell the unmistakable taint of the furnaces doing their work. The smell made him think of Mortlake, and the funeral of Mrs Roy the previous month. This much-loved woman and her troubled family had been separated from the fruits of her labour by almost every type of human frailty. Perhaps the collapse of empires was always thus.

His ruminations were interrupted by a phone call from the control room.

‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve got a missing person case. Can you interview a witness? The officer gave an address which is less than twenty minutes’ drive away.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard turned away, on his first step to the next case. One that was to test him as he’d never been tested before.