Gavin Murfin collapsed into his chair with a sigh, threw a paper bag into the bin and ripped open a plastic sandwich box.

‘Getting these names was like pulling teeth,’ he said.

Fry looked up. Was this an early lunch or a late breakfast? She could never tell with Gavin.

‘What names?’ she said.

‘The staff who worked at Hudson and Slack eighteen months ago.’

‘The what?’

Startled by her tone, Murfin stopped with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. ‘What’s up?’

‘Did you say you had a list of staff who worked at Hudson and Slack?’

‘Yeah. You asked me to get the background on Richard Slack’s RTA. Well, some clever bugger at the time thought it was a bit funny that Slack was doing a call-out on his own. What with that and the woman who thought she saw someone running off, this DC decided to check with everyone at the firm, in case Slack had contacted them before the accident. A waste of time, as it happens, but you’ve got to admit it’s thorough.’

‘Gavin, you’re wonderful.’

Murfin bit into his sandwich with satisfaction.

‘Cheers. Do you want to phone my missus and tell her that? She’d appreciate it.’

‘We lost Hudson and Slack’s personnel records in the fire last night,’ said Fry. ‘Very convenient for Mr Hudson, it seems. He tried to make out his records weren’t comprehensive, because some of his staff were casual workers.’

‘Presumably he must have known who they were, though. He had to pay them, after all.’

‘Well, I suppose that might have been the problem. Cash with no questions asked.’

‘And nothing going to the tax man, like?’

‘Well done anyway, Gavin. Is there anyone we know on the list?’

‘Not that jumps out at me. But I’ll get them run through the PNC and do an intelligence check.’

‘Let me see.’

Murfin passed across the list. Fry was glad to have it in her hand before any more crumbs landed on it. She glanced quickly down it, noting a few familiar names, but several that were new to her. Eighteen months wasn’t all that long ago, but there seemed to have been quite a turnover, particularly among the bearers and drivers.

‘Oh, wow,’ she said.

‘What’s up now?’

‘That’s one name I didn’t expect. Thomas Edward Jarvis, Litton Foot. This is the man with the dogs, isn’t it, Gavin?’

‘You’re right,’ said Murfin. ‘Didn’t one get shot?’

Fry put down the list. ‘Who would have guessed that Mr Jarvis once worked for Hudson and Slack? Not his friend Ben Cooper, I bet.’

‘Are you going to tell him, Sarge?’

But Fry only stared at him again as he finished off his sandwich.

‘Gavin,’ she said, ‘what do you mean “the woman who thought she saw someone running off”?’

This morning, the bereaved had opted for traditional music. Cooper could hear the sound of an electronic organ playing the first mournful notes. He was watching the previous party of mourners file past the flowers in the rain when his mobile rang, and he recognized Fry’s number on the caller display.