‘Well, James,’ said Locke, breaking the silence as he spun his chair round. ‘Imagine my surprise to find two police officers in my house when I got home today.’

Bolton stared impassively, not sure if this was a cue for him to ask a question. He opted to stay silent, and Locke continued after a brief pause.

‘You know how much I hate surprises.’ Locke gave a slight shrug, leaning forward to plant his elbows on the desk. ‘Especially ones that were meant to have been dealt with. Years ago.’ His voice rarely rose above a conversational tone, but Bolton had known him long enough to sense the edge to his words. He had long since lost count of the situations he had dealt with for Locke over the years and was none the wiser.

‘Natasha Barclay?’ said Locke, settling back into his chair with a creak that could as easily have been his joints as the leather of the seat.

Bolton paused, only for a second, and nodded. Now he understood the undertone of displeasure. ‘What about her?’

‘It seems she didn’t vanish as completely as we thought, or as you told me she had. The police found her, well, a part of her: her hand. It was in the freezer at her old flat. Mind telling me how it got there?’

Bolton didn’t know for sure but he could make an educated guess. ‘Olly?’

‘Are you asking or telling?’ said Locke.

‘A bit of both, I suppose.’ Bolton shrugged. ‘Don’t know for sure but that was more his style than mine. We sent the finger to her dad like you said, made him realise how serious the situation was. My guess is Olly kept the hand in case Barclay needed telling twice.’

‘How convenient for you he’s not around to dispute that.’

‘Be easier if he was,’ said Bolton. Truth be told his world was a better place without Davies in it. Questions were asked when Davies was found slumped in his car, but nobody had dared ask Bolton to his face.

‘Somehow I doubt you actually mean that,’ said Locke.

‘What did they say?’ asked Bolton.

Locke gave him a terse summary of the visit from Porter and Styles. Bolton took the stubby remains of a packet of chewing gum from his pocket and popped two pieces in his mouth, crunching through the eggshell exterior as he listened. When Locke finished, he fixed Bolton with a stare that could have wilted flowers but the big man met it without blinking. Locke’s patience lasted three whole seconds.

‘Well?’

‘Well, I don’t think that we have anything to worry about. As far as we knew she was long gone then and she still is now. If I were you I’d just tell them that you don’t know where she is—’

‘Which I don’t,’ Locke interrupted.

‘There you go, then, and there’s no one around to contradict you.’