‘Well, thank you for the tour.’ Cottesloe stood up to bring the discussion to a close. He thanked van Steenis for his views, which he promised he would pass on to his superiors.

‘It’s a hot topic, Andy, death penalty. Always has been,’ Cottesloe said to his colleague as they got back into the patrol car.

‘Not surprising. It’s a bloody outrage. Bastard gets out a week on Tuesday.’

‘Well, relax, he’s old now. Pretty harmless too, I expect. A bit like Dennis.’

Wickens snorted his disagreement.

Chapter Seven

Sunday 9 a.m.

Sunbury-on-Thames was a typical piece of London suburbia. Not wealthy, not poverty-stricken, not in any way distinctive. Gary Tilling’s home in Linden Avenue was a scruffy 1930s former council house, which had been gradually extended over the years. What had been the front garden was now tarmacked up to the enlarged porch with its flat roof and leadlight effect UPVC windows. As PC Andrew Wickens parked his patrol car outside, he checked for the car whose number had shown up on the ANPR. Yes, there it was, parked in the street outside. A ten-year-old Volkswagen Golf, black, short of two hubcaps and a section of rear trim.

Wickens rang the doorbell and waited. The chime was one of those electronic tunes that seem to go on and on. He could see through the glass the approach of a sizeable figure. The door opened to reveal a paunchy man of perhaps thirty, six-one, in a black T-shirt and stained baggy joggers. He had straggly dark hair around a balding pate, and a slice of toast jammed halfway into his mouth.

‘Gary Tilling?’ Wickens asked.

The man nodded and mumbled something through his toast. What’s it about? Wickens guessed.

‘May I come in for a minute?’

The man nodded and gestured for Wickens to enter. They both stood in the hallway. The TV was on in the background, some kind of soap opera, enveloped in the aroma of toast.

‘You may have heard about the appeal for information. Over the body discovered in the River Thames.’

‘Yeah, I think I heard something about it.’ He had a loud voice, but didn’t make eye contact.

‘According to our records, your car was on Hampton Court Road late on Thursday night.’

Tilling didn’t say anything, but the tip of his tongue moved out slightly and along the edge of his lip, as if searching for the last fragments of jam from his toast.

‘Is that correct?’ Wickens pressed.

Tilling nodded. ‘Is that from a number plate camera?’

‘Yes, sir.’