“It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” said Wildeve. “That a woman who owned this shop went missing, and now one of our early suspects runs his doll-making business from the same shop. The same man that Adam told Cooper Clifton he intended to go and see next.”

French shrugged. “Life is full of coincidences. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Sometimes it just is. And he has an alibi, remember.”

“Alibis don’t always stand up to scrutiny. You know that as well as I do. I think it’s time for us to pay Trefor Lovell another visit, don’t you?”

DC French held up his hand to stop her. He sagged against a garden wall, empty Lucozade bottle in his hand, face the color of curdled cream.

“I feel sick,” he said.

Wildeve stared down at this crumpled excuse of a human being. An intense longing for Adam claimed her. “For pity’s sake, Bernie, pull yourself together.” Then she marched off down the street and didn’t look back.

* * *

Trefor Lovell’s house was at the end of The Avenue, as tired-looking as the old man himself. The roof had a couple of tiles missing and the gaps were like broken teeth.

The grass was brown and thirsty. High up, beneath the top-left window, was an oversized plastic butterfly fixed to the wall. Its yellow and blue markings were not quite garish enough to offset the ugliness of the house’s pebble-dashed exterior.

The house wore an air of sadness and reminded Wildeve of a place that she and Adam had once viewed, belonging to an elderly widower moving into residential care. Not quite clean, vaguely unkempt. The old man had shuffled about in too-loose trousers, sorrow scratched into the lines of his face, the absence of his wife more powerful than her presence had ever been.

Wildeve swallowed down the lump of grief in her throat and pressed the doorbell.

No answer. She pressed again. Nothing. French bent down and lifted up the letter box.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, staggering upright, his hand over his mouth.

“What is it?” she said. “Hangover taken a turn for the worse?”

French retched, and the rough sound of it made Wildeve gag, too. He jerked his head from side to side, a violent gesture.

She remembered the postman’s words. “He’s an old guy.” This heat was punishing. Autolysis, the first stage of decomposition when enzymes consume the body’s cells from the inside out, wouldn’t take long.

“Oh, fuck,” she said. “You don’t think he’s dead?”

“Who’s dead?” said a thin voice behind them. “And who are you?”

Both police officers turned around.