‘Will do, boss.’ DC Martin disappears from view, and then pokes her head back round the door. ‘Oh, and they’re about to go into the cottage.’

‘OK.’ DS Short nods, and flicks his eyes around the attic for a final time. ‘This place,’ he whispers to himself, as a shiver runs down his spine. ‘It’s as though someone’s still here. Watching.’ He shudders, and leaves the room.

Back in the hotel’s reception, DC Martin appears through the double doors of the bar, her face drained of colour.

‘You OK?’ Short says, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

‘Yeah, fine.’ Her voice holds a quiver. ‘Just a weird place, is all.’ She shakes her head, glances back over her shoulder towards the bar. ‘It’s creepy, right?’

‘Let’s get over to the cottage,’ he says.

*

The team are searching the place when they arrive, and the DS and DC clamber into fresh protective gear, and enter.

‘Who’s this guy, do you reckon?’ Short picks up a picture of a young couple from the dresser in his gloved hands.

‘Cameron Patterson, I think,’ DC Martin says, as Short puts it back down again. ‘There’s a picture of him in reception. The owner, according to that, but I’m not sure where he is.’

The DS shakes his head, and furrows his forehead. ‘Odd. Alice Hadley said the owner was Faith Flynn, the woman we found dead in the attic. Bag the picture.’

‘Will do.’

Short heads up the stairs two at a time. Four doors greet him at the top.

He peers into a bathroom. A polka dot shower curtain is stretched full length across the bath. A greying flannel hangs over the sink taps.

Floorboards creak as he retreats and makes his way across the landing.

He searches the first bedroom, decorated in blues and yellows; finds nothing of interest. A second room has an easel and a chair facing a small square window looking out over the sea. A palette of paint, and a jar full of brushes are on a table, some paintings propped against the wall.

The next room is locked. ‘We need to get this open,’ he calls down the stairs.

A thud with a ram is all it takes to shatter the doorframe, allowing Short access. It’s a baby’s room, painted pastel lemon. There’s a white cot in the centre etched with lemon roses, a dusty mobile above it, a rocking chair by the window.

‘What is it with these horrendous puppets?’ he says under his breath as he heads towards the chair. This one is wearing a yellow and blue striped jacket. But it has one major difference from all the others.

‘Christ, that’s freaky,’ DC Martin says, entering the room, and coming up behind him.

‘Well, at least he’s got his feet.’ Short picks it up and hands it to the DC for bagging.