‘Mr Porter’s absence is a matter of concern, Mr Downton,’ the detective says. ‘We are treating this as a missing person inquiry. If you hear from him, or have anything else to add that you think might aid our investigation, we’d be grateful if you’d get in touch.’

‘D’you mind if I take these?’ DS Mehdi says, holding up my running shoes.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I use them every day.’

‘My wife’s explained why Felix’s blood is on them,’ Tom says. ‘You’ve no reason to suspect she’s committed a crime. You don’t even know a crime’s been committed! And did you have a warrant to search our house?’

‘You gave me permission to look around,’ DS Mehdi says.

‘I did no such thing!’

‘It’s fine, Tom,’ I say. ‘Take the shoes, detective. I’ll find a spare pair.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Downton. We’ll get them back to you as soon as we can. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. And once again, we appreciate your time.’

Tom and I both accompany the two detectives to the front door and watch as they drive away. I’m quite certain they’ll be back. Neither of them are fools, particularly the older one, DS Mehdi. It’s almost impossible for someone to completely disappear without trace these days: even if they flee abroad, there’ll be CCTV of them at a railway station or airport, and a digital money trail of some kind. Wherever you go, you need funds to survive. The chaos surrounding the collapse of Copper Beech will muddy the waters, but eventually the police will trace any bank accounts to which Felix may have had access before or after he went missing. And if all of them remain untouched, sinister conclusions will be drawn.

DS Mehdi and DCI Hollander may suspect me of having a hand in Felix’s disappearance. They may suspect Stacey, or the two of us of working together. But the field of suspects is certainly considerably wider than it might have been a few weeks ago: thanks to the collapse of Copper Beech, the number of people who’d like Felix dead is probably in triple digits.

And until and unless they find a body, Tom’s right: they can’t even prove a crime has been committed, much less who did it.

‘Where are you going?’ Tom asks, as I pick up my briefcase and car keys.

‘To work,’ I say.

‘You don’t think we need to talk about what just happened?’

‘Not really. I appreciate the support, Tom,’ I add, ‘but it wasn’t necessary.’

‘You know you can tell me anything,’ he says. ‘I’ve got your back, no matter what.’

‘I know,’ I say.