Vivien Gill wasn’t alone this time. The first hint Cooper had of company was the number of cars parked in the street near her house, not to mention the cluster of motorbikes. He had to leave his Toyota almost at the corner and walk down, wondering if there was a wedding taking place somewhere. Or a funeral, of course.

The door was opened by a big man in his late thirties, with a beer belly and the shoulders of an ex-boxer. Cooper was unavoidably reminded of Billy McGowan. It was that sense of a man who was out of place in his occupation, a man who ought to be doing something more physical than opening the door to visitors. Preferably a job that involved hitting things.

‘Are you the bloke from the police?’ the man asked, with instinctive suspicion.

Cooper produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Cooper, sir. I’m here to see Mrs Gill.’

‘She’s waiting.’

‘Thank you, sir. And you are?’

‘Family.’

The word was barely a grunt, delivered as though he was imparting more information than he normally gave to the police. Cooper’s instincts began to prickle. He felt sure that if the man were to give his name, it would be one he recognized from a charge sheet or a magistrates’ court list.

He held the door open, and Cooper squeezed past him into the hall. Maybe death and funerals were too much on his mind at the moment, but this person smelled as though he’d already died. Some time around last Monday, probably. Perhaps they hadn’t been able to schedule his funeral yet, and he was returning to the earth bit by bit as his body sloughed away.

‘Do I know you?’ said Cooper.

‘No.’

‘I think I might have seen you around. Where do you work?’

The man shut the front door and stared at him. He was only an inch or so taller than Cooper, but he carried a few extra stone in weight and most of it was in his belly and shoulders.

‘At the sewage works,’ he said. ‘I’m a shit stirrer.’

Cooper turned as the door of the sitting room opened behind him. A woman he didn’t recognize was studying him. She had hair dyed deep red, and she squinted her eyes against a trickle of smoke from the cigarette in her mouth.

‘Is he the bloke from the police?’ she said to the man.

‘So he reckons.’

Cooper showed his ID again. ‘Detective Constable Cooper.’

‘All right,’ said the woman. ‘She’s in here.’

He could tell from the rumble of noise that the sitting room was full of people. The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, leaving a space in the middle of the carpet, as if in readiness for a performance. For a few moments, Cooper could hardly breathe from the smoke and the heat of so many bodies crammed into a small room.