Outside, Javed had been trying to peer into the tent and the fact he’d disappeared a few seconds later suggested to Holm the boy had seen more than he wanted to. Lightweight.

‘Is this Ben Western?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘What does the expert from London think?’

‘Very funny.’ Holm shook his head but moved closer. He bent and examined the heather. He’d seen this before. ‘There was an accelerant. He fell into the flames and burned alive.’

‘Could be.’ Cornish pulled something from her pocket. A phone. She flicked her fingers across the screen. ‘Here. This was the scene before the CSIs started work.’

Holm peered down. A picture showed the man lying in the heather, only now, to the right of the body and clasped in one hand, was an empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka.

‘Great.’ Holm felt his earlier excitement fade. Had he been played by the person sending the tweets? Or perhaps there’d been an error, the wrong information sent. That never happened in spy novels but it wasn’t hard to imagine a mistake being made, especially if the person sending the message had been in a hurry or at risk of being discovered. ‘So Mr Western drowns his sorrows and wanders onto the heath, lights up a cigarette and accidentally sets fire to himself. How many of these types of losers do you get a year?’

‘Not as many as in London, I’m sure, but all is not quite what it seems, Mr Expert.’ Cornish reached out and pointed at the head of the corpse. ‘Look closely at the base of the skull. There’s an entry wound.’

‘He was shot?’

‘Seems likely. We’ll know after the post-mortem.’ Cornish stood beside Holm. She glanced at her watch. Pressure. Deadlines. Then the tension dissipated. ‘Look, sorry I snapped earlier. It’s good to see you again. Why don’t I buy us something over at the National Trust cafe? Your colleague too.’

‘He won’t be hungry.’ Holm gestured out through the flap of the tent. ‘About to relieve himself of his breakfast by the looks of it.’

‘You missed this.’ A few paces away, Javed straightened. He hadn’t been sick and didn’t appear ill. He pointed at a canister lying on the ground. ‘Down in the heather.’

‘What is it?’ Cornish said.

‘A cigarette lighter refill. I guess there’s your accelerant, not the vodka.’

Holm smiled. He was a little saddened Javed hadn’t spewed his guts up, but on the other hand showing Cornish JTAC employed more than just paper-pushing analysts was worth the disappointment.

‘I guess that’s why we had to drive all the way from London,’ Holm said. ‘I don’t know, Farakh, what would they do without us? Bloody country bumpkins.’

Cornish barked something out to one of the CSIs and directed him over to Javed. She shook her head.

‘Thanks.’ She nodded towards the sea. ‘Let’s get that coffee.’