Matt grimaced. ‘It was pretty basic, alright. They did run electricity to it when old Isaac took sick. Up till then he’d used the old kitchen range to heat the place, plus an open fire in the sitting room, and oil lamps and candles for light.’

‘You seem to know quite a bit about it,’ commented Swifty.

‘My grandmother used to send me out there to buy samphire from him. She used it for pickling. I was always a bit scared of him, though I never let on. The first time I went there on my own, he had a hare on the kitchen table and was skinning it. I‘d never seen anything like it before, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Little did I know I would one day be attending post-mortems — and still feeling sick.’

Swifty laughed. ‘Well, it’s worse than basic now. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next high tide carried it away into the Wash. Still, we found nothing unusual, except for a computer, which was a bit of a surprise, given the rest of the place. He let Debbie have a quick shufti through his files, but it all seemed to be about insects and stuff. He told her that he hosts a website for other lepidopterists. They catalogue local stuff and post sightings of rare specimens. All seems to check out.’

‘My wife seems to think he’s some kind of expert.’

‘I think she’s right, Will. The place is stuffed with framed butterflies and moths. And the books! Really advanced volumes. Not a Beginners Guide to the Countryside to be seen!’

‘I still think he’s a slimeball,’ muttered Will.

‘Me too. Anyway, better get back out there, and . . . er, well, I’m really sorry about your niece, Will. We’re all doing our best to find her.’

Will’s throat constricted. Unable to speak, he nodded at his old colleague.

It felt odd to be on the other end of an investigation. Missing child’s closest relative. He shivered. If he had been leading the investigation, he would be taking a very close look at the person holding that particular title. Four-year-old Josh Wilkins had been tortured and killed by his uncle, and the whole force knew that Naomi Jones had died at the hands of her father — they just couldn’t find enough evidence to send him down. Not that it had mattered in the long run, because the bastard had topped himself, or so it appeared. Will was never totally convinced that he hadn’t had a bit of help.

No, he would much rather be the one carrying a warrant card than the anxiously waiting nearest and dearest.