‘The little one, had a face like a weasel with beady little eyes, he did, he told me what would happen if I insisted on holding out.’ Evans grimaced as he tapped the picture of Oliver Davies. ‘Told me a story about another chap that had apparently tried saying no to Mr Locke.’ The name was spat out rather than spoken. ‘This other fella was like me: self-made man, hard worker, family man.’ A tremor crept into his deep voice now, the slightest of vibrations behind the words. ‘Told me in a fair amount of detail what would happen to Anne if I didn’t sign it over.’

Evans rubbed at his eyes. Porter saw the fire in them mixed with frustration and fear. Fear for what he would have subjected his wife to if he hadn’t done as he was told.

‘Don’t get me wrong, if they laid a finger on her they’d have had to put me in the ground to stop me. I would’ve done anything for my wife. She didn’t want me to sell.’ Evans looked back at the wedding photograph as he kept on talking, confessing to her now what he couldn’t tell her years ago. ‘If I’d told her about the threats she’d have made me go to the police, and somehow I didn’t get the impression that would be the last I’d see of those three if I did. I couldn’t take that chance. Couldn’t risk them coming for her when I was at work. They didn’t strike me as the kind of men to make idle threats.’

Porter’s head buzzed with the familiar excitement that came when strands of a case started to come together, to coalesce into something more solid. ‘This man they told you about, did they tell you anything else about him? His name? Where he was from?’

Evans looked back from the picture at the two detectives, licked his lips nervously, and shook his head. ‘No. No name.’

Porter realised he had been holding his breath as he waited for the answer, and let it out loudly.

‘But they showed me a picture. The little one had it with him. Showed me a picture of what happens to people who say no to Mr Locke.’

‘What was in the picture, Mr Evans?’ asked Porter.

Evans stood up and went across to a wooden dresser tucked into an alcove. He opened a drawer and rummaged around inside. When he turned around, he was holding a tattered brown envelope. He walked slowly across to where they sat and slid it across the table towards Porter with a soft whisper, and took his seat again.

‘See for yourself.’

‘What’s this? Is that … ?’ Porter’s voice tailed off. Evans finished the sentence for him.