PC Malone nodded, looking queasy at the thought. ‘Mars bar. Don’t know how anyone could.’

‘No, me neither, but that’ll be Cal.’

Catherine saw Bill Raeside approach from further down the lane, silhouetted theatrically against the lights in a tableau of dramatic portent that seemed to be straining the bounds of incongruity. Raeside’s presence usually served as a comforting reassurance that nothing either dramatic or portentous was going to happen, and that if it ever did, he’d be an incidental background detail rather than bathed in light at the centre of the picture.

She had often heard Raeside referred to as ‘part of the furniture’ in CID, which she took to indicate both his longevity and the apparent absence of career momentum. The piece of furniture he made her think of was a slightly careworn but particularly comfy old couch. He was a human comfort zone: dependable, predictable and unflappable, a safe pair of hands but not exactly the lateral thinker who could make a crucial connection, or the driving force whose infectious enthusiasm could reinvigorate a flagging investigation. His easy-going (some would say over-easy-going) nature meant he wasn’t resentful at being overtaken on the career ladder, and he never had a problem taking orders from younger officers, male or female. She’d heard it uncharitably suggested that he’d be happy taking orders from a nine-year-old as long as it meant he didn’t need to make a decision, but from what Catherine could see, he was just a guy who liked doing his job and didn’t want that job to change. Poor soul had lost his wife to cancer a couple of years back, and a few people had expected him to take an early retirement package, but many that knew him were unsurprised when he stayed on. With his kids having grown up and left home, he had very little else, apart from an Alsatian dog named Fritz, to keep him company.

It was serendipitous that he’d been the first available CID officer on scene, as this was the ideal kind of job for him: no initiative required, just calm management of the situation until superior officers took charge.

‘Guy from the Chinese takeaway found the body about quarter to one,’ Raeside said, escorting Catherine and Laura along the lane on quiet feet, like it was a church and he an usher. They were still twenty yards away, but Catherine thought she could feel the heat from the lamps, supplementing what was already a muggy August night.

‘He was emptying his bins, getting ready to lock up for the night. Thought it was a jakey dossing down. Turned out it was a bigger sleep than that. I was in the area, so I’ve been here since about fifteen minutes after the initial call. I IDed the guy right away. That’s why I sent it up the chain. This is no jakey. Aftershocks could be seismic.’