‘Do you think it was some sort of sex game that went wrong?’

‘I don’t think it was anything to do with the sex,’ Gemma said. ‘Though I suppose we can’t rule it out. If she did strangle him while they were shagging, she’d have to be stronger than she looks.’

‘And if she was all that fond of him, why did she just leave his body in there?’ Lincoln mused.

‘She wasn’t going to, she said.’ Gemma glanced over her shoulder back at the house, hoping Meredith couldn’t hear her. It was so deathly quiet in these hills, sound must carry for miles. She walked a little further away, into a large walled vegetable garden – huge beds of netted strawberry plants, their delicate foliage in stark contrast with the obscenely broad leaves of the pinkening rhubarb stems in the neighbouring beds. The smell of warm fruit was intoxicating.

Gemma gave a start when she saw a figure crouching over one of the far beds. Then she realised the person was in the green uniform of Minstead House’s gardening team, and they were pulling weeds out from around what looked like carrots. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but they showed no signs of having noticed or overheard her, so she paced in the opposite direction.

‘She rang her brother in a panic. He told her to stay put till he got there, and then they’d go back; pretend to discover Allerton “by chance” and call the police. But when they went back to the ice house, he was gone.’

‘Right,’ Lincoln said. ‘I’ll meet you at the station in an hour. We’ll interview her. Let’s get all the CCTV from inside the house that day, as well as any in the grounds near the ice house. I’ll get someone stationed over there twenty-four/seven; it’s a new crime scene. I don’t want any gap in the evidence chain, now we’ve finally got one. Oh, and Gemma?’

‘Sir?’

‘Nice work, getting her to tell you that.’

Gemma returned to the cottage, her cheeks flushed the same pink as the rhubarb at DI Lincoln’s praise.

Meredith was still sitting in the same position in the kitchen, her arms hanging uselessly by her sides, looking more like an old woman than she ever had before. The stew still bubbled gently on the Aga’s hotplate, the soft plopping sounds somehow comforting.

She touched Meredith’s shoulder gently.

‘OK Meredith, we’re going to have to go to the station – but I think you should eat something first. You’ve made this lovely stew, and all that’ll be on offer down there will be some dodgy sandwiches.’

‘I’m not hungry now,’ Meredith said, in a dull monotone.

‘I’m sure. I’m not really either – but let’s try. Just a small amount. You sit there, I’ll sort it.’