Come on, then,’ Winkler said, ignoring the furious beeping from the Beamer he’d just cut up on the roundabout. ‘Describe your ideal woman.’

DS Gareth Batey squirmed in the passenger seat. Maybe he’s gay, Winkler thought. He’d never heard Gareth mention a girlfriend, and he blushed so easily. He glanced at the younger man as they pulled up at a red light. Regulation haircut, no jewellery or tattoos – unlike that poser Lennon – and nothing to suggest Gareth had any kind of life outside the Force. Married to the job; no time for a partner of any kind. Winkler had pretty much ignored Gareth throughout the three or four years they’d worked together. But DS Gareth Batey, Winkler realised, could be useful. His suppressed ambition, his longing to be recognised by the powers-that-be – that was the weak spot Winkler was ready to exploit.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘No, I just . . .’ Gareth laughed nervously. ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable, that’s all.’

Winkler slapped the other man’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not going to report you for political incorrectness. I’m not Lennon. It’s just a bit of banter to make the journey less boring.’ When Gareth didn’t immediately respond, Winkler said, ‘All right, let me tell you about my ideal woman.’

As he went on to detail the cup size and leg length and proclivities of his perfect bird, Winkler could tell that Gareth was desperate to join in. He just needed a little more coaxing.

‘Let me help you. Tell me what you think about Masiello.’

‘Carmella?’ Gareth seemed shocked. ‘But she’s, er, not heterosexual.’

Winkler spluttered with laughter. ‘I’m not saying your ideal woman has to actually let you shag her. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of chick you’re into. I know a lot of women who like men in uniform. I might be able to put a word in for you.’

‘But we’re plain clothes.’

Give me strength, Winkler thought. ‘So you don’t like Irish-Italian redheads, then?’

Gareth blushed.

‘What about blondes? Older blondes? Suzanne Laughland. Would you give her one?’

Gareth’s face went from candyfloss pink to fuchsia. ‘She’s our DCI,’ he spluttered.

‘That hasn’t stopped Lennon from, you know.’ He whistled.

Gareth stared at him as Winkler turned onto the industrial estate where the self-storage unit was based. ‘Patrick and Suzanne?’

‘Yeah, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? How else do you think he gets all the plum jobs? He makes Suzanne promise him all the cushiest assignments while he’s got her bent over her desk.’ Winkler was horrified to feel a twitch in his pants as he pictured this.

‘But Patrick’s married. And so’s the guv.’

Winkler laughed, focusing on the blackheads on Gareth’s nose to make his semi-retreat. ‘What planet did you beam down from, Batey? Firstly, Lennon’s wife’s a baby-battering loony who was locked up for nearly two years. You think our esteemed colleague restricted himself to bashing the bishop while the missus was in her padded cell? And have you ever seen Laughland’s husband? I haven’t. That picture on her desk was probably printed off the Internet. Fake husbands dot com.’

He spotted the yellow sign that told him they’d reached their destination and swerved in front of a lorry, eliciting another angry beep, into the car park.

As he unfastened his seatbelt he leant over conspiratorially. ‘Lennon’s not the man you think he is. Secrets and layers, that’s him. Always thinking strategically. The bloke should have been a politician. Not like me. I’m the kind of guy who’s straight down the line, who says it as I see it.’

He got out of the car, smiling to himself, not waiting for Gareth’s reaction.

‘Right,’ Winkler said, striding towards the building. ‘Let’s see what old Nancy left behind.’

Winkler had spoken to Nancy Marr’s son, George, the previous evening. George told him he was keeping his mother’s possessions in storage because he didn’t have room in his little flat. Mrs Marr’s house was still up for sale, but her son had been advised by the estate agent to move everything out. Winkler had already been through the old woman’s possessions once, when they were still in situ, but he hadn’t looked too closely. And now he was trying to prove that this case wasn’t connected to the OnTarget murders, he’d decided it was worth another look. He’d been round all the neighbours again and nobody had seen or heard anything. A couple of the neighbours hadn’t lived in the street when Nancy was murdered, and Winkler needed to follow that up, find out who had been there six months ago. But first, he was going to have a good sort through the old bird’s stuff.

Or, rather, he was going to watch Gareth do it. Winkler had a horror of touching stuff that had belonged to old people. He couldn’t bear the smell: boiled beef and mothballs and cat wee. The thought of their wrinkly hands fingering it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Gareth wouldn’t mind. This was the sort of stuff he excelled at.

George Marr had called ahead to let the storage centre know the police were coming. Winkler flashed his badge at the stocky black bloke at reception and made his way to the room where Nancy’s stuff was stored, Gareth trailing behind, checking his phone as he walked.

‘Anything interesting?’ Winkler asked. ‘Hot date?’

‘No. I’ve been waiting to hear back from Peter Bell about the key card that Rose Sharp’s murderer used to get into the hotel room.’

Winkler slowed his step. ‘And?’

‘Still nothing. It’s so frustrating.’

‘Never mind. Sounds like you’re doing a good job anyway, Gareth. Reckon you’ll make an excellent DI when the time comes.’

The look of pleasure that came onto Gareth’s face reminded Winkler of his mum’s cat when you stroked it. Poor old Gareth didn’t get stroked very often. Winkler turned away and smiled to himself.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said, a moment later. ‘All Nancy Marr’s worldly goods. Better get started.’

Nancy’s possessions were collected into a dozen brown cardboard boxes, with ‘Small Box’, ‘Medium Box’ or ‘Big Box’ stamped on the side. George had stuck a handwritten label on each one. Winkler examined them in turn. ‘Kitchen stuff’. George had no doubt taken the best knives and any pots and pans that weren’t old and rusty. ‘Knick-knacks’, which was written on two of the boxes. Winkler remembered that Mrs Marr had a large collection of porcelain frogs and hedgehogs, along with a number of brass statuettes that gathered around the electric fire like little sentries. ‘Keepsakes’. ‘Personal items’. ‘Paperwork’. ‘Books and records’. ‘Misc.’.

‘Go through the paperwork first,’ Winkler said, taking a seat while Gareth crouched on the floor and removed a lid from a Medium Box.

‘What am I looking for?’

Winkler shrugged. ‘Anything interesting. Something that shows she was in debt or struggling to pay her bills. Letters from friends – maybe she wrote to one of her pals to say she was worried about someone lurking around. Maybe we’ll strike lucky and there’ll be a diary.’

As Gareth sorted through the papers, quickly glancing at each sheet before setting it aside, Winkler ate the chicken sandwich he’d brought with him.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ he said with his mouth full.

‘What does?’ So far, all Gareth had found were lots of bills (all paid, no red ones), a pension book, a number of letters from twenty or thirty years ago and Nancy’s driving licence.

‘Well, it’s sad, to think about what gets left behind when someone dies. A load of junk, mostly. And ungrateful kids who just care about their inheritance, what there is of it. What impression did Nancy Marr make on the world? What was her legacy?’

Gareth looked up and Winkler held his eye.

‘That’s what’s important, isn’t it? Making the most of your life; making an impression. So that people remember you and care that you’re not around anymore.’