‘Well, this is the Herald, the cleanest newspaper in Britain, as they proudly state. So they’ll just have been looking through the window of that house with a long lens. Or had an anonymous photo emailed to them. Or something equally ethical. Dear God, I could have beaten the Herald to what’s turned out to be an exclusive for them. By about a minute. It’s an exquisite form of torture.’ She gave him a deliberately manic grin, threw back her tea and banged the mug down on the table. ‘Have a nice day at work, dear.’

*   *   *

Quill knew exactly what he was going to see when he entered Lofthouse’s office at Gipsy Hill. Sure enough, there it was: the Herald on her desk.

‘In case I hadn’t heard,’ he said.

She gave him a wry look and daintily dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. ‘Tell me.’

Quill paused for a moment, returning her calm expression. He wished he could ask her to tell him what she knew. But he had learned from their first few regular meetings that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He was still getting used to being able to talk to her about impossible things. ‘We found traces of the silver liquid that you can’t see on the exterior wall at what would have been the exit point of the assailant. There were a few drops of it in the garden, but no major deposits, and nothing had been disturbed, suggesting, once again, an airborne escape route.’

‘You’ve talked to the wife?’