‘Well … quite.’

Cooper recalled the picture postcard view of Knowle Abbey he’d admired from across the river, above the Corpse Bridge.

‘What about using the abbey as a location for filming?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that’s a thriving business.’

‘We’ve tried, but we’re competing with Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, and a dozen other places in the county. Yes, we benefited a little from the Downton Abbey phenomenon. But the last TV crew to visit Knowle were from Bargain Hunt. Do you know it?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Daytime television, I believe.’ She looked at Fry. ‘Someone called Tim Wonnacott?’

Fry shook her head too. ‘No.’

Burns sighed and gazed at Cooper seriously.

‘There’s a grand plan to save the Knowle estate,’ she said. ‘But it needs a massive long-term injection of cash. Somehow we have to find millions and millions of pounds of revenue – and from a consistent source.’

‘Downton Abbey,’ said Fry as they drove out through the parkland in the gathering dusk. ‘I’ve actually seen that one. Is Homeland like that?’

‘Not exactly like that,’ said Cooper. ‘Why?’

Fry turned to him. ‘Well, just a thought. I was wondering if you remembered that you still have my TV in the boot of your car?’

When Cooper’s phone rang a moment later he answered it automatically. But it was bad news.

‘Has it just happened?’ he said. ‘Last night? Why didn’t you call me? Well, okay. Yes, I suppose so. Thank you. And, well … I’m really sorry to hear of your loss.’

Cooper ended the call with a curse. ‘Damn.’

‘What is it?’

‘Mrs Shelley,’ he said.

‘Oh … she’s your landlady.’

‘She was,’ said Cooper. ‘But she’s dead.’

When he got back to Welbeck Street that evening and let himself into his flat, Cooper was immediately struck by how different it felt.

It made no sense, of course – especially as Dorothy Shelley had been in hospital since Friday. And even when she was living next door, he’d hardly been aware of her presence most of the time. But now that he knew she was dead, it made all the difference. Logic didn’t come into it.

As he walked through the rooms he found it quite unnerving how much number eight no longer seemed the same. Deep down he knew the reason for the feeling. Death had crept a little bit too close to his walls, reminding him once again that there was no escape. As if he could forget.

Cooper checked his messages and fed the cat. He dug a chicken and sweetcorn pasta bake from the freezer compartment of his fridge, pierced the foil and slid it into the microwave. Six minutes at full power before it needed stirring. Then he switched on the TV for the news.

As he watched stories about bad weather and a firemen’s strike, his mind began to drift. He thought it was odd that Diane Fry should remind him he had her television in the boot of his Toyota, then not ask for it back. She hadn’t even arranged a time for him to deliver it to her new apartment in Nottingham, though surely she must be living there now – the old flat in Grosvenor Avenue would be empty and not fit to live in, even for someone with Fry’s spartan needs. It was almost as if she’d wanted her TV to stay where it was. Well, he couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t much worth watching. It wasn’t as if she were missing any episodes of Homeland. Or even Bargain Hunt.

A few minutes later Cooper sat down at the kitchen table with his pasta bake, watched by the cat and trying very hard not to stare at the empty chair opposite him. Liz had planned a big kitchen in their new home, with oak units and marble worktops. Even then her dream had seemed a million miles away from number eight Welbeck Street. And now it was just a half-forgotten fantasy. The reality was this cramped space at the back of a terraced house in an Edendale side street, with a microwave oven and a place set for one.

And this wouldn’t last either, not once the new owner of the properties arrived. Cooper considered his options. Perhaps he should start house-hunting again. But the prospect filled him with dread. Every estate agent’s window would have too many painful associations. Every set of property details would feel pointless.

When he first moved into this flat from Bridge End Farm, Cooper had never known a silent house in his life. He remembered a foreboding of how depressing, how desperate, and even how frightening it might be to come home every night to a dark and empty house. The post would still be lying on the mat where it had fallen in the morning, a single unwashed coffee mug would be in the sink where he’d left it after breakfast. And the house would have that feel of having got along all day without him, that his existence was unnecessary, maybe even unwelcome.

He recalled that first taste of loneliness now – sour and unexpected, a burst of metallic bitterness at the back of his mouth, like a spurt of blood on his tongue.

As he ate his pasta Cooper gradually tried to nudge his thoughts on to a different track, the way he’d been taught months ago by the grief counsellor. He ran his mind back over the events of the day, seeking some useful insight.

Each of the visits he’d made to Knowle Abbey reminded him that the Manbys’ historic mansion was as much out of his comfort zone as it was for Diane Fry, a woman who never seemed truly at home anywhere. There were so many things he didn’t understand about the way that place was run. The Right Honourable Walter, Lord Manby of Knowle, was an enigma to him and would probably stay that way. Even if he got a chance to interview the earl, which seemed unlikely, he wouldn’t expect to learn anything helpful. Someone like his lordship would undoubtedly be as well practised at putting up a façade as any career criminal protesting his innocence in a court-room. It was all about public perception, letting people see whatever they wanted to see.

Cooper couldn’t get the ideas of the coffin roads out of his head. Sandra Blair and the Corpse Bridge were at the centre of everything, he was sure. The discovery of George Redfearn’s body had distracted most of the attention today, including his. The post-mortem result on Mrs Blair hadn’t helped.

As a consequence his time had been taken up interviewing a middle-class cocaine user and a dodgy enquiry agent, not to mention a giant oak tree. Instead, he should have been trying to find a way of breaking open the group of people Sandra Blair had been involved with. He should have been seeking the weak link he’d mentioned to Luke Irvine.

Cooper could feel his position weakening hour by hour, though. Without more evidence, his justification for concentrating on Sandra Blair and Knowle Abbey was being eroded away and soon his stance would become untenable. And there would be no shortage of people willing to point it out.

As Cooper finished his pasta, Diane Fry was driving through the gates of a modern executive development on the outskirts of Nottingham and drawing up outside her new home. She’d rented a double-bedroom, top-floor apartment with an open-plan lounge and kitchen area, a master bedroom with fitted wardrobes and juliet balcony, and a secure door entry system. The rent was about six hundred pounds a month, but it did have its own parking space. And it was only a stone’s throw from the A52 for her commute into the city.

She sat in the car for a few moments and looked at the other properties, with their neat grass verges and the little access roads between them. There was barely a sign of human occupation, but for lights behind curtained windows and a car parked in front of a garage door.

It was amazingly quiet here – much more peaceful than the house in Edendale, with its constant comings and goings, the endless flow of noisy students and migrant workers, the neighbours who wanted to stop and chat in the street, the friendly family in the corner shop who always smiled and asked after her health.