There was silence on the end of the phone. For a moment he thought the line had gone dead. But then he heard a sigh.

He said, ‘Anyway, never mind the rollicking. Why was your mate Mark phoning you? Surely he didn’t just want to share the good news about your fuckwit of a boyfriend.’

He could hear a stifled laugh at the other end of the phone. ‘Don’t even begin to think you’re forgiven for this, David Barbrook.’ David allowed himself a smile. ‘No. Do you remember that murder inquiry I’m heading up while you’re careering round Gloucestershire like a half-crazed loon?’

‘Yes. But what’s that got to do with Mark Stone?’

Sally lowered her voice again. ‘The guy we’ve arrested for it claims the victim had been working for Beth Kinsella. So I got Mark to check it out from his end. And it turns out he was right. Not only was he working for Kinsella but she sacked Jack Tyler for turning up to work drunk.’

‘What does that mean, Sal? Has Tyler’s murder got something to do with Beth Kinsella?’

‘Don’t go seeing reds under the bed, David. There’s nothing to worry about. We were just tying up a loose end. There’s no evidence to suggest Jack Tyler working for Beth was anything other than one of life’s peculiar coincidences.’

But David was worrying. And he didn’t like coincidences.

It had been called in by the young constable who’d been sent out to speak to one of the locals about some bit of petty vandalism up at the dig. But before he’d been able to get to his prospective interviewee he’d been stopped by a woman in her nightdress running down the middle of the street screaming at him. She’d seen it from her upstairs window in the garden next door.

Mark Stone’s day had been going from bad to worse. He’d overslept. And in his blurry-eyed state he’d managed to first short out the toaster by shoving a fork into it in an attempt to retrieve a recalcitrant slice of bread, and then dollop marmalade down the front of his only clean, if somewhat creased, shirt. As it had turned out the state of his shirt hadn’t been an issue because he was now standing in the back garden of number 6 Weaver’s Close, Bailsgrove, clad from head to foot in a white Tyvek onesie.

He hated days like today. Somehow it was always worse when you knew the victim. And unlike Beth Kinsella’s death there was no doubting that this time he was going to be investigating a murder. He’d already cordoned off the house and SOCO were in full swing.