‘Adrian Osborne.’ He held out a hand. ‘No sense catching your death out here, why don’t you come inside?’

He and his partner had bought the place a little over six months ago, summer; kept their flat in Stoke Newington while the bulk of the work was done; downstairs rooms knocked through, new kitchen, shower. Like to put in a big window at the back eventually, more light, but you can’t do everything. Not at once. People before, they’d been renting. Not long. Less than a year. Andronic? No, I don’t think so. Can’t remember exactly what it was, to be honest. But a family. Quite a few of them, I believe. Four or five at least, couple of younger girls, teenage son. Football posters on the walls. Only met them a couple of times. The father, when we first looked round. Scarcely said a word. After that, it was the estate agent, mainly. Going round with the builder, you know?

Osborne leaned forward, looked again at the photograph. ‘I wish I could be more definite, I really do. I mean, he could have been one of the boys, the boys I saw, but, to be honest, I didn’t pay them a lot of attention. It wasn’t as if we were introduced or anything.’ He slid the photo back along the table. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps you’ve got a forwarding address?’ Karen said.

‘Asked for one, several times. Thought they’d leave one when they went, but no.’ He shrugged. ‘You could try the guy we bought from. He’s the one, rented it to them originally. I’ve got his details, phone number, email. He should have something.’

The cat lifted a paw and looked at Ramsden balefully as they left the room.

The letting agency was just along the Broadway from Shopping City, slush splaying round their feet, splashing up the backs of their legs as they walked. The office was on the second floor, a faint smell of incense mixed with hair oil. The vendor was Asian, Pakistani. Music playing, vaguely classical, guitars. A quick shake of hands, lingering on Karen’s just a fraction too long. Manicured nails. Parma violets on his breath. A forwarding address, of course. Mile End, somewhere. A few swift manoeuvres with the mouse, wireless controlled, and there it was on the screen. Mile End, indeed.

‘If you’re ever looking for property,’ the agent said. ‘Investment …’

Out on the street, Karen breathed in cold air.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Ramsden said.

‘Bit early, isn’t it?’

‘Early or late. Depends.’

They found a small pub away from the High Road, a few old men wishing their lives away over slow-drawn pints of best. While Ramsden got in the drinks, Karen called in on her mobile, sent a request, the address in Mile End, get through to the local station, send somebody round. They were well into their second round, Ramsden’s conversation beginning to veer off into the now familiar fear and loathing, when the call came back: the address as given didn’t exist.

Like so many others, Petru Andronic had come into the country, severed all traces, and, until his body had surfaced on that frozen December morning, virtually disappeared.

Cordon turned at the edge of the hill, salt from the night air bright on his tongue, and looked back across the bay. Early January and cold as a witch’s tit. A forecast of more snow. What kind of a happy new year was that?

Beyond the lights of the far town it was just possible to make out St Michael’s Mount, a hump of black against the blackness of the sea. Amongst the huddle of houses to his right, a light flickered and then went out. Collar up, he turned again and continued to climb, cobbled stone beneath his feet, key already in his hand.

He’d bought this place, a converted sail loft in Newlyn, before prices had spiralled out of control. Now all around him were holiday lets and second homes, kids with names like Tristan and Toby and people carriers with customised number plates blocking the winding lanes.

Not that he was quick to judge.

A long room with a kitchen at one end and a bed at the other, lavatory and bathroom partitioned off, it had been somewhere to move into, move on from, part of the plan. Chief inspector in another five or six years, superintendent by the time he was fifty. One of those nice old Georgian places in Penzance, down near Penlee House, that was where he’d seen himself by then, what he’d fancied. Till some bastard pulled away the ladder and, perforce, he’d stayed put.

His own bloody intransigence hadn’t helped.

Passed over, these last few years he’d been stationed in the middle of nowhere cosseting a team of five: two young PCs, wet behind the ears, a sergeant close to his own age, prone to outbursts of gout, and a pair of community support officers who needed all the support they could get. Neighbourhood policing, that’s what it was called. Low-level drug use, common-or-garden domestic disputes and routine drunk and disorderlies; inebriated yahoos with public-school accents down from Oxbridge or London for the surf; a little casual breaking and entering. Other things.

In the past twelve months, there’d been several cases of sheep rustling, but more recently even the sheep were getting thinner, barely meat enough on their bones to warrant all that up and down through the heather. The only reason Cordon hadn’t jacked it in and walked away before his thirty years were up, he hadn’t wanted to give his bosses the satisfaction.

Besides, there wasn’t so very long now to go.

So he reported for duty, clocked in, clocked off, kept Home Office directives piled high in a corner until there were enough for a decent bonfire, happy enough to let the powers that be forget he was there.

At home, he sat with his feet up, reading, listening to music, rationing the Scotch. A mishmash, where the music was concerned: Mingus with Eric Dolphy at Cornell; Bach Partitasfor solo violin; some Ellington; some blues; Britten’s String Quartet in C. And the reading? Trollope, his current favourite. The Way We Live Now. There was a man who knew a thing or two.

Opposite the one comfortable chair was a television set with its screen turned to the wall. Occasionally, as if to remind himself of the world beyond his own, he would swivel it round and watch the news. Bankers and captains of failed industries slinking wantonly into the shelter of their offshore accounts with their air-brushed mistresses or surgically reconstructed wives; men whose pensions would bring them more in a year than many of the men Cordon knew would earn in a lifetime. Trollope all over again. We never learned.

Hungry, he took the remaining half of pork pie from the fridge. He was just levering the cap from a bottle of Tribute ale, when the mobile sounded from his coat pocket across the room.

The custody sergeant in Penzance. ‘Woman here, sir. Bit of a state. Half out of her head on drink and I’d not like to say what else. Not making a lot of sense.’

‘My concern?’

‘Asking for you, sir, that’s all. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘She have a name?’

‘Carlin.’

Cordon stopped his breath. ‘Rose? Rose Carlin?’

‘Maxine.’

‘You sure it’s not Rose? Or Letitia. She could be calling herself that.’

‘Maxine, that’s what she says. Maxine.’

Cordon looked at his watch. A quick drive eastwards around the bay. Newlyn to Penzance. His car parked at the bottom of the hill. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Pressing the cap firmly back on to the bottle, he took a healthy bite out of the pie and reached for his coat.

The custody sergeant pushed the paper he was reading aside.

‘Sorry to call you out, sir. Only way to shut her up.’ He nodded in the direction of the cells.

‘She’s under arrest?’

‘There for her own safety. Thought she might sleep it off.’

‘Be suing you, next thing you know, false imprisonment.’