‘I know,’ Gemma said, taking the keys of a pool car off a peg and signing them out. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll report in to the guv later.’

‘Give me a bell too, let me know. And … look after yourself, Gemma,’ said Mavis, much to her astonishment.

An elderly uniformed man on a golf buggy finally drove up on the other side of the gates, heaved himself off it, came towards her, and fumbled with the large padlock.

‘Hello. DC Gemma McMeekin,’ she said after he’d hauled open the gates, holding her hand out through the window. ‘Thanks for coming to meet me.’

The guard shook it. His hand was fat, with a calloused palm, and he smiled at her with a mouthful of teeth so yellow and crooked that it made her happy she had braces.

‘George. Good of you to be ’ere to keep an eye on our Meredith. I’d do it meself, like, but I’ve got to do me rounds. Can’t be everywhere at once, can I? But, I tell you, this is a bloody terrible business. The thought of it. Nothing like that’s never happened ’ere in all thirty years I bin ’ere. Shall I show you to the cottage?’

Gemma explained that she’d already been there once today, so George locked the gates again and drove off with a sombre nod, his buggy making a loud whining noise. It reminded Gemma of her mum’s sewing machine, when you tried to press the treadle but the needle was jammed in the material and wouldn’t move.

There was a team of gardeners turning over the soil in an empty border on the far side of a lawn, white marble statues flanking them like the weeping angels in an old episode of Doctor Who, but Gemma’s attention was mostly on the stunning view, layers of violet hills in the distance. No wonder Lady Whatshername had wanted to build her home here.

She parked in the staff car park and retraced her steps down to the cottage. A flowerbed by the downstairs window was bursting with hollyhocks in various pastel shades. Gemma hadn’t noticed it earlier in the pouring rain.

‘Hi again. Nice not to arrive drenched this time,’ Gemma said, dumping her bag on a chair and inspecting Meredith’s face. She looked a bit more composed than she had earlier, but her already-pale skin still bore the greenish tint of stress and shock.

‘Come on through, I’ll put the kettle on. I’m just making dinner – stew. It’s almost ready. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’