‘She was the other beneficiary,’ Jazz replied.

‘That would make sense. They’d been friends from way back. If I remember rightly, Hugh got Jenny a job at the school originally.’

There was a further knock on the door. ‘Sorry, Ma’am, SOCOs are waiting for you.’

‘I’m coming now, Roland.’ Jazz stood up. ‘DS Miles, would you continue to take Mr Frederiks’s statement? Patrick, are you coming with me?’

Patrick nodded and the two of them walked out of the room.

‘Inspector Hunter?’ Frederiks’s voice halted her in her tracks. She turned round.

‘You know, I didn’t find Julian. Or, for that matter, put him there in the first place. And I didn’t ask for the bequest from Hugh. It was a complete surprise. Ask the solicitor.’

‘I know, Mr Frederiks. Sometimes life puts you in unfortunate circumstances, doesn’t it?’

He nodded, comforted. ‘Yes. Thank you, Inspector.’

Jazz and Patrick walked back along the corridor to find the SOCOs. Jazz was grateful Patrick had refrained from interfering whilst she conducted her interview.

‘Little odd, isn’t it, Daneman leaving the money to that fellow Frederiks out of the blue?’ he observed.

‘When Miles spoke to the solicitor, he said Hugh had changed the will only recently in Frederiks’s favour. We need to find out a little more about Frederiks’s family background. Hello, Martin, thanks for coming.’ Jazz went up to her favourite forensic officer with a smile and shook his hand. ‘I’m glad it’s you. This is turning into a bit of a nightmare. Shall we talk as we go?’

‘Sure. I understand time is of the essence.’ Martin Chapman nodded. ‘Hello, Patrick, how’s things?’

If Chapman was surprised to see DCI Coughlin in Norfolk with his ex-wife, he made no show of it.

‘Grand altogether, Martin. Came to get a bit of fresh Norfolk air, and ended up with a stiff on my hands.’

‘Any idea how he got down there?’ Chapman asked Jazz as she unlocked the cellar door.

‘None, I’ve only just arrived here myself.’ Jazz walked carefully down the cellar steps. The familiar smell of rotting flesh filled her nostrils. Usually it didn’t affect her, but she wobbled as she took the final step down. Patrick grabbed her to steady her.

‘Careful there, Jazz.’ He gripped her hand, and she understood he sympathised, that she’d been facing the prospect of death in an intensely personal way only a few hours ago.

She took her hand away, but gave him a brief smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘So, what have we here?’

Chapman was already peering into the trunk. ‘Heavy bruising to the left and middle of the forehead – he took a serious bump somewhere along the way . . . gloves, please, Bonnetti.’

Bonnetti, Chapman’s devoted assistant, struggled down the stairs with the forensic case, laid it on the cellar floor, opened it and passed a pair of gloves to his boss.

Jazz and Patrick stood side by side behind Chapman as he gently lifted the head of the dead man away from the side of the trunk. One of the reasons Jazz liked Chapman was because of the way he respected the physical remains of the human life that had recently departed. He handled his cadavers sensitively, unlike some forensics she had seen.