Stuart Hobbs had a firm handshake and gave a suitably solemn nod.

Alison went to make tea, leaving Holland and Kitson to fill an awkward few minutes with small talk while her husband wrestled his small son on his lap. The drive up from London had been pretty good, despite the average speed checks on the M1. The toddler’s name was Gabriel, and the ‘terrible twos’ were kicking in. They were waiting on a quote to have the kitchen extended.

Everyone looked happy when the tea arrived.

‘It’ll be a relief, actually,’ Stuart Hobbs said, ‘if you have found Chris. It’s not been particularly easy for either of us.’

Holland said he could understand that. ‘Like I said on the phone, though, we can’t make a positive identification at the moment. That’s why we’re hoping you can answer a couple of questions that might help.’

Alison sat down next to her husband. He took her hand. ‘Fire away,’ she said.

‘Did you know much about what Chris was working on?’ Kitson asked.

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t really talk about it and I didn’t really want to know. Not once he’d moved into plain clothes, anyway. I knew there was a good deal of secret stuff, some seriously nasty people they were after, but he didn’t bring it home with him, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sensible,’ Kitson said.

Hobbs shifted his son gently to one side and leaned forward. ‘I thought this was just about . . . identification.’

‘It is,’ Holland said. He had already put a call in to Chris Talbot’s former DCI at Serious and Organised, but was still waiting to hear back. So far, Alison had certainly said nothing to suggest that the work her former husband was doing would not have brought him into contact with Alan Langford ten years before.

‘You think the fact that Chris was a copper is important?’ Alison asked.

‘Yes, it might be.’

‘Might have had something to do with what happened, you mean?’

‘Well, as I said before—’

The door to the living room opened suddenly and a boy walked in – twelve or thirteen, with shoulder-length hair and a My Chemical Romance sweatshirt. He stopped as soon as he saw that there were visitors, shifted awkwardly from one trainer to the other. ‘My World of Warcraft account needs topping up,’ he said, looking at the carpet.

‘I’ll sort it out later,’ Hobbs said.

The boy mumbled a ‘thanks’ and left quickly.

‘That was Jack,’ Alison said.

Holland and Kitson nodded; the maths was easy enough. Chris Talbot’s son.

‘Stupid bloody computer game,’ Hobbs said.

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence until Alison got up, saying ‘oh’ as though she had remembered something and going to fetch a cardboard box that Holland had seen at the bottom of the stairs on their way in.

‘I got this down from the loft,’ she said. ‘It’s a few of Chris’s things. I thought they might be useful.’ She laid it on the carpet in front of Holland and he leaned down to look at it. ‘There’s a few photos and some other bits and pieces. Not much, really. Considering.’

‘That’s great,’ Kitson said. ‘Thank you.’

Holland lifted the flaps of the box, tried to make his question as casual as possible. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know if Chris had his appendix out,’ he said.

Alison looked taken aback, then nodded slowly. ‘I think so. I mean, there was a scar, but you should probably check with Chris’s mum. I can put you in touch with her, but we don’t really talk much these days.’ She shrugged, summoned a thin smile. ‘She wasn’t exactly thrilled when Stuart and I got married.’

Kitson said, ‘It’s difficult.’

Alison squeezed her husband’s hand.

‘Did he ever have an operation to put pins into his leg?’ Holland asked.

‘Yeah, Chris smashed his leg up playing rugby, the silly sod,’ Alison broke into a smile. ‘He was pretty good, actually. Played for the Met’s first fifteen a couple of times.’

Holland nodded, impressed. He reached down and began rummaging in the box, but could not resist a glance across at Stuart Hobbs.

‘I play football,’ Hobbs said.

Holland looked up at Alison and he could see then that she knew they had found Chris Talbot’s body. He had no idea what she still felt for the man to whom she had been married and whom she now knew to be dead, but the swell of sympathy he felt was not just because of her loss. He could see that the woman simply did not know how she was supposed to react. Sitting there as wife and widow, ten years on, with her new husband and his firm handshake.

Alison laughed softly, remembering. ‘He used to have all sorts of problems with airport X-ray machines . . .’

‘Be even worse these days,’ Hobbs said.

Holland pulled a framed photograph of a rugby team from the box. He looked for Chris Talbot’s name at the bottom and found him halfway along the second row. His arms were folded high on his chest and his ears stuck out. Holland could not detect much of a resemblance to the boy he had seen a few minutes earlier.

Kitson started to say something about Jack and DNA, but Holland was no longer paying attention.

He was staring at the photograph.

Two along from where Chris Talbot was standing was a face Holland recognised.

Ten minutes later, he and Kitson were walking back towards the car.

‘We have to tell Thorne,’ Kitson said.

Holland held up a hand. He already had his phone out and was listening to a message. ‘Sonia Murray,’ he said. ‘Asking me to call her back urgently.’ He shook his head, unable to place the name.

‘I’ve seen her name somewhere,’ Kitson said.

Then Holland remembered an attractive black woman, the barrage of abuse as she walked along the landing.

Sonia Murray was the police liaison officer at Wakefield Prison.