She took a short cut through the ginnel and arrived in time to see the car pull up outside her father’s bungalow. Eric Clapton was playing again, ‘Lay Down Sally’ not at as great a volume as ‘Layla’, but still loud enough for the words to be distinguishable from thirty yards away. Marnie hurried down the road as two officers got out of the patrol car and headed towards her father’s front door. She reached the end of the path just as the officers rang the doorbell. Inside the bungalow TT yapped an enthusiastic response.

A moment later, John opened the door, the volume of the music rising several decibels as he did so. He showed no surprise at the sight of the two officers, nor Marnie standing just behind them.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ He nodded towards Marnie. ‘This is my daughter. Is it OK if she comes in too?’

‘Certainly,’ one of the officers replied.

‘Join the party,’ said John. ‘Why not?’

The police stepped inside and Marnie followed. She put Mister into the bedroom on his own and her other two dogs in the kitchen, then went into the living room where the officers were waiting with John standing hunched in front of his chair, TT in his arms. The television, as always, was tuned to a sports channel, the commentary fighting against Clapton’s vocals. Marnie picked up the controller and turned the TV off, and then she lifted the arm from the record player. The silence that followed was so intense she heard the blood pumping in her ears.

‘Why don’t we all sit down?’ said the male officer. ‘This is an informal chat, nothing to worry about.’

John, obediently, sat on his recliner. The officers perched side by side on the small sofa.

Marnie hovered behind her father’s chair, looking down on his head, at the black, curly hair that surrounded his tonsure, the skin tanned tobacco brown, the ears jutting out. He was clutching TT with one big hand, smoothing the dog’s head and neck with the other, flattening his ears. Marnie could tell from the rhythm that John was stressed.

‘We need your help with something, Mr Morahan,’ the male officer continued. ‘We’re trying to establish the layout of the Channel View funfair so we can work out where exactly the bones were buried in relation to the rides. We hope that’ll give us a clearer idea of what might have happened.’ He took out a folded piece of paper and looked about him for somewhere to display it. Marnie stepped forward to clear an ashtray and several mugs from the small table. The officer opened up the paper and put it on the table. It was a crude, hand-drawn map.