‘Sorry,’ said Styles with a bashful shrug. ‘Em’s having a feud with her big sister and needed someone to vent to.’

Porter waved away the apology, and they walked across to the intercom by the gate. Mary Locke sounded surprised to hear Porter’s voice again, but second time around did not hesitate to open the gates. When she opened the door, her face looked strained. She tried a smile, but the rest of her face didn’t follow suit. Porter wondered if she’d gone down the Botox route, or if she’d been under the knife. Either way, it made for a slightly unnatural look.

‘Detectives, Gavin said he’d spoken to you. I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. Have you found Natasha?’

‘Not exactly, Mrs Locke. May we come in?’

She stepped back and they went inside, heading into the living room via the same route as the previous visit without waiting to be asked. Mary Locke followed behind, and they each assumed their same seats from the day before.

‘You said “not exactly”, Detective. What did you mean by that?’

‘There was evidence in her flat that leads us to believe that Natasha was the victim of some form of attack, Mrs Locke, and that she may have sustained serious injuries.’

‘What sort of injuries?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on his.

Something in the way that she was speaking bothered Porter. Was it what she said, or how she said it? It had dogged him since his first visit: an unreachable itch right at the back of his subconscious, nagging and undefined, but just too far to scratch.

‘We’ve compared the DNA sample we took from your son to evidence found in Natasha’s flat. There was blood found in the living area that has been identified as hers.’ He paused to let that sink in before dropping the real bombshell. Her mouth dropped open a fraction and her eyes flitted about the room, everywhere but on either police officer.

‘We also found a hand in her freezer that matches the same sample; it belongs to Natasha.’

Mary Locke’s eyelids fluttered and she raised one hand sharply to her mouth, the other pressed flat against her chest. This time there was no protracted build-up of emotion, and the tears sprang forward unchecked. She closed her eyes and kept them that way for a three count, as if that could stem the tide. Porter hesitated, feeling like an intruder on the most private of moments.