Styles pointed at a few sheets of paper that lay neatly stacked on the kitchen bench. Porter picked them up one at a time and scanned the contents. Sure enough there was a dental check-up arranged at a local surgery. The statement for her current account confirmed her as a Barclays customer. Porter speculated as to whether there was a connection with the surname but dismissed it as coincidence for now. He looked up again, first at Styles, and then around the room, but more closely now as if seeing everything for the first time. The TV was a big bulky thing that belonged in a museum, with knobs on the front to change channel and volume. From the pattern on the curtains and the fabric on the furniture, to the same layer of dust everywhere he looked, the flat seemed like a snapshot from the land that time forgot; a TV or film set that had just been taken out of storage to air it.

‘What do you think, then?’ Styles said from behind him.

‘I’d say we need to speak to Miss Barclay about the standard of her housework, but I have a feeling she’s not been in here for some time.’ Styles nodded and Porter went on. ‘The way the dust has built up on the surfaces, I’d say it’s been months since anyone set foot in here, at least, maybe a lot longer. Let’s just hope that wherever she is, she’s got nothing more serious than a few chores around the house to worry about.’

It took another half hour for the crime scene techs to finish up. Everything was painstakingly catalogued. Styles had joked in the past that the process was like a macabre fashion shoot, and Porter could see why. By the time the pictures were taken, the techs had dusted surfaces with fine powder like a make-up artist applying foundation. Fibres were snipped from the carpet like a hurried pre-catwalk haircut. They chose their camera angles carefully to capture every detail, like David Bailey immortalising the perfect profile.

Porter decided Styles had understated in the extreme when he had called it a strange one. Everything looked to be from that same era, from the peach, pale blue and soft green curtains to the light brown furry-looking sofa that screamed 1980s. Add that to the correspondence that hailed from the same period, and it was as if they’d travelled back thirty years when they crossed the threshold.

The bedroom did nothing to alter that perception. Porter could almost feel the dust lining his nasal passages as he breathed in. Styles moved across to the curtains and opened them with both hands simultaneously, sending wispy plumes of dust up into the air like ash from a volcano. Two of the curtain hooks on the left-hand side relinquished their grip on fabric made weak by time, and tore free of their fastenings.