“More years than you’ve been alive, miss.”

“Does the name Bridget Sawyer mean anything to you?”

“Never heard of her.” But his eyes flickered.

“Are you sure?”

“Listen, I’ve been awake for a very long time and I’m tired and I’m hungry, but if you come back later, we can talk then.” He brushed past them, heading toward his front door.

“What about your wife—Annie, isn’t it?” said Wildeve. “Can we talk to her instead?”

Lovell became very still. He turned to face them, his movements unhurried and his gaze steady, but Wildeve noticed the hand holding his door key was trembling.

“I said later.”

“When?”

He spoke carefully, as if choosing the words most likely to make them leave. “This afternoon? Three o’clock?”

“We’ll be there,” said Wildeve. “In the meantime, if you remember anything, however small, do let us know.”

Lovell touched her arm with a rare sort of gentleness, as if he somehow suspected the horrors she had seen during the last twenty-four hours. “I promise,” he said, and she believed him.

* * *

The police officers watched Trefor Lovell go into his house. As soon as the door shut behind him, French turned on Wildeve.

“We need a warrant. Call Mac. Tell him what’s going on.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “On what grounds? A terrible smell?” She began walking briskly up the street toward her car. French had to half jog to keep up with her.

“Oh, come on. He’s dodgy as fuck. Anyone can see that.”

“I think he knows more than he’s letting on, yes, but we’ll get that out of him this afternoon.”

“After we’ve given him a few hours to move the body.”

“He said his toilet is broken.”

French grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. “He’s lying.”

Her temper was rising with the heat. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted or manhandled. “Maybe. And maybe he’s telling the truth.” But French had a point. What if there was something sinister inside Lovell’s house? A part of her wondered whether her reluctance to take French seriously was less about mistrusting his instincts and more about her dislike of him. She hesitated, unsure about what to do next.

French noticed her indecision. “He’s been out all night—he admitted that himself. So what was he up to? Why wasn’t he at home in bed?”

“He was working, Bernie.” Her car was a few meters ahead and she upped her pace, needing time to think.

“Doing what? It’s too much of a coincidence. That, and the stink. How would you feel if he’s got some poor fucker holed up in his house, all ready to dump in the woods tonight, and we did nothing? Because that’s career-ending, and I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet. ”

She forced herself to breathe deeply and dug in her pocket for her keys.