‘Was there an argument between you this evening? Might that be why your husband left the house?’

‘He wouldn’t go out with Josie this late. Look, I explained all this on the phone. You can see it out on the step. They might be hurt.’

‘I don’t see clothing around. Does he sleep dressed, Mrs Carter? Maybe he puts dirty clothing in a wash basket at the end of the night?’

Anna didn’t understand her point, but before she could ask, Adams finally found his voice.

‘I see footprints in the grass. If there was blood on the step, the rain’s taken it.’

Lowth stepped up for a look. Adams shone his light at the lock and the handle, both sides of the door. ‘No forced entry here. Lock looks fine. Only unlocks from the inside.’

‘What does that mean?’ Anna said. ‘You think the door was left unlocked?’ Was this her fault after all?

Lowth turned to face her. ‘We really can’t assume anything just yet. Could you get me a recent photo of them both, please? Is that your address book?’ She moved past Anna and picked up a battered little booklet from the coffee table, where the base for the cordless sat.

‘Yes. Most of our friends will be in there. There’s a photo album in Josie’s room.’

‘Could we go to Josie’s room, please?’

All three made the journey, following the wet tracks. In the hallway, Adams stopped and tilted his head back.

‘Got a ladder for this?’ He was tall enough to reach overhead and try the sliding bolt on the attic door. It wouldn’t budge.

‘Why do you want to look up there? It’s empty. We have a garage at my father’s for our stuff.’

Lowth ushered Anna onwards. Adams followed, attic forgotten. Beside the door to the kitchen was the cubbyhole at the end of the hall, a curtained alcove with a desk and desktop computer and a box where they kept all their bills and other paperwork. Adams pulled the curtain for a glance inside.

‘I can get a photo of Nick,’ Anna said. She ducked into the cubbyhole and quickly returned with a passport, which Lowth took with a curious look as they moved into the kitchen.

Adams spotted the cellar door and opened it. He stabbed torchlight inside. As he shut the door, he glanced at the fridge and said, ‘That’s a mean stare-down face. He’s a big guy.’

On the fridge was a picture of Nick in just shorts. Heavily bearded, shaved head, muscled and tanned and growling at the camera, his hands clenched into raised fists. He looked like an animal. It was a picture Nick had had taken when he was cutting fat for a bodybuilding competition, and now used to put him off raiding the fridge for junk food.