Ingrams had paid for the food, like he paid for the hotel, and had fronted up the cash to pay Bain too. She was as grateful for his money as she was grateful for the assistance of someone who appeared to know what he was doing, but what made her uncomfortable – even more than being in some scary stranger’s debt – was that she still couldn’t work out what was in it for him. He’d claimed he wanted to know how he fitted into the picture, particularly as the picture now involved death, attempted murder and conspiracy to destroy evidence, but he had equally insisted that his part was tangential, that Jasmine had been the target back in Northumberland. As far as she could see, this equation didn’t add up. It was missing a variable.

The Bains’ house was a 1950s-built ex-council semi, the kind of place that could look deceptively small on the outside but surprisingly roomy within. In Bain’s case, the deception was reversed, largely because the place was so cluttered. There was no empty space on any horizontal surface, every flat object accommodating a smaller one above. Stacks of magazines provided a platform for piles of DVDs, or in some gloomier corners, piles of VHS tapes. Sun-faded cardboard boxes towered and interlocked like brickwork along walls and beneath tables. It was quite definitely the home of somebody who never threw anything out, and as the cash-stuffed envelope in Ingrams’ bag testified, never gave anything away either.

There was a smell of chips throughout the place too; not the enticing aroma of vinegar, but the slightly choking stale odour that hung around after cooking. It made her wish she hadn’t eaten.

Bain sat in an armchair in front of a disproportionately large telly tuned to Sky Sports News. He turned down the volume by way of acknowledging their arrival, but didn’t switch off the set. He looked early sixties but was possibly younger, given that he didn’t appear to be a long-term Men’s Health subscriber. He was fatter than the photos had suggested, the slight jowliness of his face only hinting at the extent of his middle-age spread. Jasmine scanned the walls and spotted a few photos among the piles of junk. No kids. Just him and the wife. Looked like they’d lived here for decades.

‘You got the money?’ he asked.

Ingrams handed it to Jasmine as he crouched down over the bag, busying himself with the tripod. Bain barely gave him a second look. He checked the money and saw that the full two hundred was there, then placed the envelope on top of a side table; or more accurately on top of a folded newspaper on top of a ketchup-smeared dinner plate on top of a side table.

‘Fire away,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if I just snap a few while you talk?’ Ingrams asked, reverting to that strange, artificial-sounding accent.