Evans whipped his head around to look at Styles, eyes narrowing as he stared. ‘You’ve got some nerve coming round here asking questions now. Where the bloody hell were you when I asked for help years ago?’ He still spoke in a low grumble, but the sparks of anger coming off his words were unmistakable.

‘Sorry, Mr Evans, I wasn’t aware that there was any police involvement when you sold up,’ said Porter.

‘There wasn’t.’ His voice rose a shade higher now, lifted by the anger. ‘But there bloody well should have been. Useless bastards didn’t lift a finger. Said there was nothing they could do. No evidence, apparently. Well, they didn’t look that bloody hard, I can tell you.’

‘Well, if you can spare us the time, Mr Evans, I’d be more than happy to hear your version of events.’

Evans eyed him suspiciously then shrugged. ‘What the hell. I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’m not scared of that bastard. Not any more.’

He turned and made his way back inside the house, gesturing for them to follow.

‘Scared of who, Mr Evans?’

Evans shouted back over his shoulder as he turned a corner at the end of the short hallway. ‘Of Alexander bloody Locke, that’s who.’

Porter and Styles sipped politely at mugs of steaming milky tea while Evans sat across from them at a large oak kitchen table and told them what he remembered. He had taken over from his uncle after working there for twenty years, and turned a small family business into one of the biggest in the area. He had been in the early stages of the most lucrative contract they’d ever had, when a spate of warehouse fires had led to the very same customer exercising a get-out clause and leaving them with hefty insurance premiums to pay, and no sign of new business to replace the lost revenue.

‘He didn’t stop there, though,’ said Evans.

Porter interrupted. ‘You say “he” – are you saying that Mr Locke was responsible for the fires, Mr Evans?’

‘I can no more prove that than I can prove that God exists, but with some things you don’t need proof, you just believe and know in your heart. He might not have struck the match, but he did this to me, as sure as night follows day. He did this.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Styles.

‘I was warned,’ he said simply. ‘I was warned that I’d regret turning down his offer.’ His eyes had lost some of their focus now, not seeing the kitchen table, but looking back and seeing things as they had transpired, seeing Alexander Locke.

‘What was the warning, Mr Evans?’ said Porter softly, not wanting to break the flashback, just steer it in the right direction.