And then he remembered the jokes amongst the other shopkeepers on the street when he’d taken it over, the mysterious disappearance of Bridget Sawyer and her connection to Cooper Clifton. And what about Joby Clifton? Losing one family member was careless, but two was surely more than coincidence.

His first instinct had been to call the police. But Fletch was resistant. “No, no, it’s none of our business. What if they decide to close you down? Let’s not get involved. Whatever happened here, it was a long time ago.” And then Annie had become so ill, he had allowed it to slip from his memory.

Until she died and everything had spiraled out of his control.

One winter’s evening, past midnight, he’d brought her body in from the garage, but in a rare lapse of judgment, had forgotten to draw the curtains.

A shadow at his window. The white hair of Cooper Clifton.

Trefor had never breathed a word about the disappearance of Cooper’s son, Joby. He’d maintained the Cliftons’ pretense to protect their feelings. Because of this, he assumed they’d have an understanding, a gentleman’s agreement. Each to their own. Live and let live.

A few days later he had bumped into Cooper. His old friend hadn’t said it outright, but he had hinted that he knew. That he’d seen Trefor moving his dead wife’s body. That he could make life uncomfortable. Perhaps raise the rent.

Incensed, Trefor had got his own back.

Anonymous calls to the Cliftons, hinting at his own suspicions about Birdie Sawyer and Joby.

Tit for tat.

But when things began to disappear from his shop, and the bodies appeared in Blatches Woods, Trefor started to panic. If he contacted the police, he would have to tell them about Annie, and he wasn’t ready to do that. If he said nothing, others might die.

What Trefor had not yet been able to puzzle out was how Cooper had known who was on the end of the phone.

Trefor conjured up the image of a ten-pence piece.

Heads.

Tails.

If he did nothing, he would never speak to Cooper Clifton again. And he wanted that murdering bastard to know exactly who had led the police to him.

He banged on the door of his cell. Minutes passed. He banged again, loud and urgent.

Eventually, an officer appeared. “I’d like to make a phone call,” said Lovell.

The request was relayed to the duty inspector. Luck was on Trefor’s side. The duty inspector wanted to eat his sausage-and-egg sandwich while it was still hot and grunted his assent.

The telephone’s ringback tone played six times before he heard the click of a receiver being picked up.

“Hello?”

“I want to speak to Cooper.”

She sounded wary. “Who is this?”

“Just put him on the phone.”

“He’s busy, I’m afraid.”