Fry was out of her door and standing in the road. She had a good view of Todd as he momentarily froze in his garden. He was tall, about six feet two, she guessed, and strongly built. But right now he looked scared.

‘He’s going to leg it,’ she said.

‘Diane, don’t go near him,’ said Hitchens. ‘You’re not wearing a vest.’

But in the end, she didn’t have to go near Ian Todd at all. He glanced from one end of the street to the other, taking in Fry and the police vehicles. And then he ran towards the marked van, where four officers in uniforms and bulletproof vests were advancing towards him. He met them a few yards down the road, and two of them took hold of his arms, turned him round and handcuffed him. Fry saw his face then. He looked more surprised than frightened.

‘Well, he must have thought you looked really scary,’ said Gavin Murfin, arriving at Fry’s shoulder. ‘He took one look at you and ran the other way.’

‘You shouldn’t be here, Gavin,’ she said. ‘You’re not wearing a vest.’

‘He’s handcuffed. What’s he going to do, kill me with his evil stare?’

Fry scrutinized Ian Todd’s house. It looked ordinary enough, but what killer’s home didn’t?

As Fry walked up the drive to the house, the front door opened. She stopped, suddenly conscious that Todd might have had an accomplice. If there was a second person involved and they were armed, she was completely exposed. She was appalled at herself for making such an elementary error.

Then, from the shadows of the hallway, a woman emerged and stood on the step. She was dark-haired and attractive, with a startled look in her eyes. They stood frozen, staring at each other, until Fry felt the initial surge of shock give way to anger. She stepped forward and held out her warrant card.

‘Detective Sergeant Fry, Edendale Police,’ she said. ‘And you, I believe, are Mrs Sandra Birley.’

‘Excuse me. Detective Constable Cooper?’

Cooper turned to find a man in a dark suit standing behind him. Another funeral director’s assistant? But no …

‘I’m Christopher Lloyd, the crematorium manager.’

‘Oh, Mr Lloyd. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.’

Lloyd looked at Vernon Slack. ‘Come inside. It’ll be a little less public.’

Another funeral party was gathering, even while the previous one was less than halfway through its service. Because they couldn’t go into the chapel, the mourners were milling about outside near the porte-cochere. They’d be in the way when the hearse arrived, but no doubt there would be someone whose job it was to herd them in the right direction.