‘Well, it’s up to you, I suppose—’

‘That’s quite correct,’ said Harland.

Pope gave him an appraising nod then shrugged and turned to the door.

‘If it is a failed sexual assault, we should be trawling through the database, looking for someone who fits the profile—’ He caught Harland’s eye. ‘But I’ll go and check if there’s anything that Mendel needs me to wrap up for him.’

Harland waited until the door closed, then looked down and sighed. Staring at his notes, he wondered what he could scrape together for yet another unsatisfactory report.

The photographs of the scene told him nothing new – just that same ghostly silhouette sprawled on the dark mud. He’d been there, seen the body in situ, studied the ground around her, and walked the beach. Nothing. He turned his attention to the list of clothing and personal effects: T-shirt, shorts, sports bra, briefs, sports socks and trainers – proper running ones apparently – and a few keys on a key chain. They’d retrieved several pieces of what seemed to be a cheap digital watch – the kind with a stopwatch timer, ideal for runners. He pondered the pictures of each item, willing something to jump out at him, haunted by a feeling that there was something there but he lacked the wit to see it.

A little after midday, there was a knock on the door and Mendel leaned into the office.

‘You sent Pope to tidy up after me?’ he asked, with a grin.

Harland smiled. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘I was going to grab something in a minute.’

‘Come on.’ Harland stood up. ‘Let’s go across the road and I’ll get you a drink.’

The light drizzle eased as they walked along Wyndham Way, but the pub was still quiet when they entered. Harland set a half-pint of beer in front of Mendel, then eased himself in at the table, sipping from a tall glass of Coke as he did so.

‘So, you tracked down the former boyfriend then?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ Mendel nodded. ‘Simon Matthews. He’s a lucky boy actually. Turns out he was away on a stag weekend in Amsterdam – flew out of Heathrow early on the Friday, back late on Sunday – so he’s got a whole group of lads plus the Passport Control people as his alibi.’

‘Oh well,’ Harland reflected, ‘I wasn’t really expecting a signed confession from him. If he’s not in the picture he might as well be completely out of it. What about that guy she liked at her work, the married one?’

‘That’d be Phil Teyson – he’s the only married bloke there under fifty – although we spoke to everyone in the firm. Same reaction from all of them – can’t believe it, tearful – just what you’d expect. We did a bit of digging, and I got Sue to have a quiet word with one or two of the girls in the office to see if she could pick up any gossip, but there’s nothing there, I’m sure of it.’ Mendel shrugged, then raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Harland nodded slowly, turning a beer mat between his fingers.

‘How did we get on with the neighbours?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘As it happens, we had a very nice chat with the woman who lives next door to Vicky.’ Mendel sat back and smiled. ‘She’s great. Says she doesn’t like to pry, keeps herself to herself, but she knows every bloody thing that goes on in that close – spends a lot of time at the net curtains, I reckon.’

‘Neighbourhood Watch.’ Harland smiled.

‘Exactly. She seemed pretty sure that Vicky didn’t have a bloke – said it was a shame really, a nice girl like that needed to get out and enjoy herself after all she’d been through . . .’

Mendel paused and looked at Harland, trying to read his expression.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’ Harland put the beer mat down. ‘The more dead ends we find, the more I’m worried about missing something. You know me . . . By the way, Charles says our killer wore gloves, which might hint at something . . . planned.’

He sipped his drink, then stared at the glass for a moment.

‘It feels too . . . tidy. You know? In the spur of the moment, the heat of passion, people make mistakes, they’re seen, they leave things behind.’

‘But not this guy,’ Mendel said.

‘Not this guy,’ Harland agreed. A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Pope told me it was a sexual assault gone bad.’

‘Pope’s an idiot,’ Mendel scowled.

Harland’s phone was ringing as he strode back into his office. Pulling off his jacket, he grabbed the receiver as he walked round the desk.

‘DI Harland?’

‘It’s Charles,’ said a voice. ‘I just thought I’d give you a call, let you know how we’re getting on with the analysis on that mud.’

‘Get to the point,’ Harland scolded, draping his jacket over the back of the chair. ‘What have you found?’

‘Fibres,’ Charles replied. ‘We’ve picked up several strands of dark blue nylon from the mud under the victim’s chest – anywhere else and it would have been washed away, but this is new, comparatively clean, with no sign of exposure to the elements.’

‘That’s good.’ Harland scribbled the details on his notepad. ‘Do you think the killer was wearing a dark blue top or jacket?’

‘Well, it doesn’t match anything the victim was wearing,’ Charles agreed. ‘No guarantees, of course, but it’s something.’

‘It is.’

‘Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment, but we’ll see if we can work out what sort of clothing we’re dealing with. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks, Charles.’

He put the phone down. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And, he thought as he switched on his screen, it was something new to put in his report. Smiling grimly to himself, he started to type.

As usual, the kettle was empty. Scowling, Harland moved across to the sink and turned on the tap. How hard was it to refill the damn thing when you used the last of the water? He clicked the switch down hard, then wandered out of the kitchen while he waited for the water to boil.

Moving into the main office, he found PC Gregg leaning back on a chair, drinking a cup of tea. Harland frowned.

‘Nothing to do, Stuart?’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The young officer tipped his chair forward and looked up. ‘Is there something you need?’

‘Finished those statements?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gregg nodded, reaching for a folder.

‘Then I’d like you to check the victim’s effects. Start with that key chain.’

‘Sir?’

Harland sighed.

‘She had three keys on it,’ he explained. ‘Two will be her front-door keys, but I’d like to know what the third one was for. It’s probably for a door at her office. Find out for me, will you?’

Gregg shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘And Stuart?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Fill up the bloody kettle when you empty it.’

He strode back to the kitchen to find the water had boiled. Rummaging in the cupboard, he found his mug, then reached over to take a tea bag from the box.

‘Sir?’

Harland turned to find Firth behind him.

‘What is it, Sue?’ he asked.

‘Blake wants you,’ she said, with an apologetic little smile.

Harland gave a quiet sigh and returned the tea bag to its box.

‘Dark blue nylon fibres . . .’ Blake spoke the words slowly, as though pondering their significance. He glanced up with a flat expression. ‘Is there anything specific about them? Any indication as to what kind of clothing they might come from?’

Harland shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir. Forensics only picked up on them this morning.’

‘Pity.’ Blake returned his attention to the report. ‘Of course, it’s good to see some progress, as far as it goes, but I was hoping for rather more.’

Harland said nothing. He sat still, his face carefully neutral as he waited to be told how important the case was. As if he didn’t appreciate that. As if he wasn’t fucking trying.

‘There’s a lot of interest in this case, you know,’ Blake was saying. ‘I want to be certain that we’re exploring all avenues, making the most of our resources.’