The barman said, ‘It was packed in here because we had the band on so I wouldn’t normally notice. But as it happens Jack was so pissed he nearly knocked a bloke off his bar stool on his way out.’

‘Any idea what time that was?’

‘Can’t have been long before last orders.’

West asked, ‘And did Damian Kelly leave at the same time?’

A look of obvious relief spread across the barman’s face. ‘No. Damian and a couple of the other lads stayed behind to give me a hand clearing the glasses when we closed up.’

‘Don’t suppose you happen to know where Damian Kelly lives?’

With a hint of reluctance in his voice, the barman said, ‘Not sure. Somewhere off Nursteed Road, I think.’

West thanked him and turned to leave, shoving his crisps into his jacket pocket alongside the photo of Damian Kelly. He stepped out into the June sunshine with a decided spring in his step. A pie, a bag of crisps and a suspect. He couldn’t wait to share the good news with the DI. It was amazing what a bit of shoe leather and some good old-fashioned police work could produce.

The limestone dust coated Clare’s skin like a shroud. She took a swig from her water bottle and swallowed a couple of paracetamols. She had a splitting headache, and it wasn’t all the fault of last night’s wine. The whole team seemed subdued. The site was unnaturally quiet in this oppressive heat. There was a storm coming and Clare wished the weather would get it over and done with.

She looked up to see Jo kneeling down by the side of the cutting. ‘Is it tea break yet?’

Jo said, ‘Nope. But you’re in charge, boss. You can have a cup of warm brown sludge any time you damn well want.’

Clare laughed. ‘I guess I can. But I need to crack on with this. We need to get this pit dug and photographed before the rain sets in.’ She lowered her voice. ‘How are things going at your end?’

‘Just finished sampling the second one. All I need to do now is package them up and get them down to the pick-up point at the gas station. They should be winging their way to Florida by this afternoon.’