‘I want to make sure she doesn’t double back,’ I said. ‘Also, she might fly.’ I got out of the Asbo for a better look.

‘When you’re finished I’ll be in the car,’ said Guleed.

Disappointingly, Caroline didn’t launch herself into the air. So I climbed back into the car and we drove up the winding drive to Chorley central.

It was a beautiful house, if you like fine detached William and Mary villas in the middle of nowhere. Still had a lot of its original features, and I was surprised it wasn’t at least Grade II listed, but that hadn’t shown up on the IIP check during the initial stages of the investigation. It had a nice sensible tarmac drive with discreet drainage channels built into verges – not that they were going to flood this far up a hill, but Bev would have approved.

Checking the roof, I spotted solar panels on the south facing slopes and I was willing to bet the gutters directed rain into storage barrels against the possibility of hose-pipe bans. I pulled up next to the BMW 5 series that was parked outside the garage that made up the ground floor of the barn conversion next door. Presumably the Ferrari 288 GTO also registered in Martin Chorley’s name was kept inside. I spotted what definitely looked like an office attached to one end of the garage and made a mental note to check it – if only to sneak a look at the Ferrari.

‘What do you think?’ asked Guleed as we approached the door.

‘Puzzled but co-operative,’ I said.

‘Resigned but obstructionist in a passive-aggressive fashion,’ said Guleed.

‘That’s very precise.’

‘I’ve done more notifications than you,’ she said and rang the doorbell.

It turned out we were both wrong.

Martin Chorley, knowing we were coming, had had time to clean the kitchen, tidy the living room and hide his porn stash. I’m kidding about the cleaning because after five seconds in that house it’s clear he had a cleaner in three days a week at the very least.

He looked less haggard when he opened the door, the smudges under his eyes having receded and the pain lines around his mouth seemed less prominent. It looked like he was beginning to settle into his grief, but there was a feverish aspect to his eyes that I didn’t like. He was dressed in khaki chinos and a white and black check shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was a smudge of something black, oil or ink I couldn’t tell which, on his left shoulder.

‘Please,’ he said when he saw us. ‘Come in – make yourselves at home.’

Guleed gave him a sharp look.

‘Can I ask how you’re feeling, sir?’ said Guleed.

Mr Chorley gave her a puzzled glance and then shrugged.

‘Bloody awful,’ he said. ‘But thank you for asking.’