The man lifted eyes that now flushed red and heavy and Joel threw the pillow down onto the sofa, his anger and frustration spilling over. He turned away from the weeping image of Christopher Hennershaw to fix on DS Rose and her expression mirrored his own.

‘He’s not right, is he?’ Joel said.

‘No,’ she said, her head shaking, ‘we got this wrong.’

Hennershaw brought his knees up onto the sofa to further give the impression of a snivelling, cowering heap. They had come here looking for a man capable of multiple murders, whose victims included Danny Evans, the man known locally as The Beast. Just a few moments in his home and nothing about Christopher Hennershaw suggested he was that man.

They were back to square one.

He thanked the elderly lady who had taken such care preparing his bunch of flowers. White lilies. She offered him a card to go with it.

‘For your message,’ she said with a chuckle that had a real warmth to it.

‘No, thank you.’

The lady nodded like she understood entirely. ‘Just being here is enough.’ She leaned into him, her hand reaching out to rest on the arm that held the flowers. ‘I must say, it’s so nice to see a man making an effort. If it were me, lying in my sick bed, I would want a visit from a man in a suit and polished shoes. It says a lot about you!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said and tried to step away. She still had a grip.

‘Oh, trust me! My husband used to say the same. The shoes especially – he would always say you could tell a man’s character by the shine of his shoes. I guess that makes you all right by me.’

His eyes followed hers to rest on the tanned leather of his shoes, where they were criss-crossed with blue material and the instep of the right was starting to show a thread.

‘They were a gift,’ he said. ‘I try to look after things other people took the time to pick out. They’re starting to wear now though. That’s what happens, isn’t it? You can look after things as much as you want but they still get old. They get worn out. They die.’

The woman’s smile faded away. She let go of his arm and took a step backwards. ‘I suppose you’re right about that,’ she said.

‘A florist must know better than most.’ He held the flowers across his chest now to inhale their scent. ‘These are perfect: fresh and beautiful. But soon they’ll be dead, thrown out to rot in the ground.’