‘Armed police. Keep your hands where we can see them.’ He wasn’t a big fan of guns, but wished he had one now. He hoped whoever it was bought the lie, whether they were armed themselves or not. The figure inside the car didn’t move. He called out a second time. ‘Armed police.’ He could see a pair of legs now, dark trousers disappearing into the footwell. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Porter looked over the roof at Styles, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Styles peered down into the car, but stood back up a second later.

‘Stenner,’ he said. ‘I think he’s dead.’

Porter approached the car, stooping to peer inside. Stenner’s head had rolled towards the driver’s side, chin almost touching his chest, half-open eyes staring at nothing in particular. Porter saw the blood on Stenner’s hand before he noticed the stain on the dark shirt. He leant into the car, touching two fingers to Stenner’s neck. Nothing. Not even a flicker of a pulse.

He straightened up again, shaking his head at Styles, and looked towards the house. The front door stood open, only six inches or so, but open nonetheless.

‘You call it in, then head down the side,’ he said to Styles. ‘I’ll take the front.’

Styles nodded, putting his phone to his ear. Porter moved towards the house, feet crunching gravel like eggshells. He paused, peering into the half-light in the hallway. A sound came from somewhere inside the house. A chair leg scraping? Porter wasn’t sure. He glanced across, seeing Styles disappearing around the corner, and pushed the door open gently with two fingers. Should he shout out another warning to whoever was inside, presumably Locke? He stayed silent for now, weight shifted forwards, light on his toes, and slid inside.

As with previous visits, the place was immaculate. Porter’s eye was drawn to the post at the bottom of the staircase, a dark suit jacket crumpled over it like dirty laundry. Another noise, muted, but quite clearly a cough. Porter took a guess as to its source, poking his head around the kitchen door, seeing nothing. Slow, soft steps, as if walking a tightrope, he edged forward. Another door in the far corner of the kitchen stood open. A scuff of shoe on tile came from beyond it, and Porter was so fixated on the door that he nearly walked past the gun sitting in plain view on the counter. He assumed that Stenner had been hit by a bullet fired from a police gun, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that Locke had turned this one on his own man for some reason.