“I’m supposed to be at a meeting at seven and I’m going to be late. Could you do me a favour and let DCI James know?”

“OK,” White said cheerfully and rang off. The traffic in front of her slowly started to move.

She turned the engine on and eased forward. Her speedometer told her she was travelling at five miles per hour. The clock on the dashboard read seven already. She turned on the radio and tuned it to the local station. A droning voice was telling people to stay off the roads because a heatwave was on the cards and a record number of visitors were expected. The longest day of the year really was going to be a long one for DC Harriet Taylor.

* * *

She got to the station just before eight. She was already exhausted and the day had barely started. She made her way to Killian’s office, knocked on the door and went inside. DCI James’ expression indicated he was not impressed.

“Sorry I’m late. The traffic from my house was a nightmare,” she said.

“It’s the twenty-first. The longest day. You should have made allowances. Everybody else managed to get here on time.”

“I didn’t realise the roads would be that bad.”

“A phone call would’ve done.” James sounded as if he were telling off a small child.

“I did phone. I phoned the switchboard. I asked PC Eric White to let you know.”

“Then it must have slipped his mind. Anyway, now you’ve deigned to join us, we might as well get cracking.”

Taylor sat down next to DS Southern. Eric had wanted to get her in trouble. She’d have a word or two with him before the day was through.

“You haven’t missed much,” James said, “fortunately for you. We’re all still inclined to agree with Carrick’s theory. It’s the only way forward, as we stand.”

“I agree. I went through it again last night. The sequence of events points to Dennis Albarn. The timescale fits.”

“Then let’s see if we can prove it.” James sat back with his hands clasped behind his head. “A dead man can’t be tried, but we still need some concrete evidence if we’re going to make this wash with the general public.”

“And the press,” DC Phil Brown added. His piggy eyes were even more sunk into the sockets and his chubby face was blotchy.

“Phil,” James said to him, “since you’re looking the shittiest out of all of us, you can take the easiest job. Get hold of Albarn’s service provider and get a log of all the calls made and received in the past week. You really ought to know your limits with the drink. Jane, you come with me. Let’s see if this Littlemore bloke is as good as he’s supposed to be.”

“What about us?” Southern asked.

“I want you and Harriet to search through what’s left of Albarn’s house. I believe the fire department’s said it’s safe to enter. You might want to think about a change of clothes.”

Great, Taylor thought, I’m being punished for being late. Eric White is going to pay dearly for this.

* * *

The traffic on the roads had eased off slightly as Taylor and DS Southern made their way towards Polgarrow. It was still oppressively hot, though, and Taylor knew it was only going to get worse. She was sweating in the old tracksuit she’d found in the lost property room. Southern had decided to risk it and was still wearing his own clothes.

“He likes you,” he said, “DCI James. He definitely likes you.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. How come he’s making us dredge through what’s left of the house? Surely he could have got a couple of rookie uniform guys to do it?”

“They wouldn’t know what they were looking for and they wouldn’t know what to do with it, even if they did find something.”

“What exactly are we looking for? I thought everything in the house was destroyed.”

“Most of it was. I read the initial forensics report but they may have overlooked something. It happens all the time. Besides, Albarn wasn’t a suspect at the time.”

“This feels odd. Investigating the murders of two people in a house where our main suspect died. It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“If he did do it, we need to know, and if he didn’t, we still need to know.”

“Wise words, but I have a feeling it’s not going to be that easy.”

“How long have you been in CID?” Southern asked.

“Since January. I came here from Edinburgh.”

“Then you must have had your reasons.” He stopped the car outside of what was left of Dennis Albarn’s house.

“It still stinks,” Taylor said as they approached the burned-out shell.

“I expect they’ll have to knock it down and start again. Wooden houses are all very well and nice to look at, but I wouldn’t fancy the maintenance. And look what happens in a fire.”

“Where do we start?”

“The front door is always a good place.” Southern got out a pair of rubber gloves and Taylor did the same. “At least where the front door used to be.”

They explored the house, broken glass crunching underfoot. Everything was black and charred and most of it was unidentifiable. Taylor was glad she had put on the old tracksuit. It was filthy in seconds. She wished she had changed her shoes as well.

“The things we do in the line of duty, eh?” Southern smiled at her. His perfect teeth looked even whiter against the layer of soot that had formed on his face.

* * *

“There’s not much left,” Taylor said after half an hour of searching. “This has been a waste of time.”

“Let’s check the garden and then we can call it a day.” He wiped a bit of grit from his eye.

Dennis Albarn’s back garden consisted of a long stretch of unkempt lawn with a table and two small chairs on a concrete slab at the bottom. A tiny tin shed stood next to the table and chairs. It appeared to have survived the explosion intact.

“Albarn wasn’t much of a gardener, that’s pretty clear,” Southern said. The shed was locked with a rusty iron padlock, which looked as if nobody had touched it in quite a while. “And how on earth are we going to get into that?”

“Give me a moment.” Taylor went back into the house and came out with a piece of metal. She picked up a brick from a pile next to the garden wall. “It’s a spring from one of the burnt chairs,” she explained.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t ask.” She banged the furniture spring with the brick until it straightened out a bit, put the sharp end in the keyhole of the lock and hit the other end as hard as she could with the brick. The lock sprang open with a click.

“Scottish skeleton key.” She held up the metal.

“I’ve seen everything now.” Southern shook his head.

“I grew up in an interesting town. A lot of my friends were boys.” She took the lock off and pushed the shed door open.

The smell hit the two detectives at the same time and both of them recoiled. A malty stench with a certain sweetness to it.

“Home brew.” Southern pointed to the crates of empty beer bottles on the floor of the shed. Two large barrels stood next to them.

“My dad used to make this stuff. I’ll never forget that smell. My mother hated it.”

“There’s not much else in here,” Taylor said. She stepped inside. Apart from paraphernalia associated with home brewing — pots of yeast, bottles of sugar and various tubes and pipes — there was not much else inside the shed. There were no tools to indicate that Dennis Albarn had any interest in gardening.

“This place is just a mini brewery,” Southern said.

A sudden gust of wind blew in from a slit in the window opposite them and slammed the door shut. On the back of the shed door, supported by two rusty nails was a large green shovel. And this one obviously had been well-used. So well-used, in fact that the paint on the blade had been scraped off in places and the metal was dented. Its edge, though, looked sharp and nasty.