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Heston gestures about him. ‘Not when we’re doing overnight work. No point paying people to sit on their arses. There are deliveries sometimes, and we have someone on site then, but that’s about it.’

‘What about security?’

‘Don’t need it, mate. All the kit’s locked behind barbed wire on the other side of the track. We had to bring it in by train and that’s the only way anyone’s going to get it out.’

‘So if a member of the public came here during the day, they wouldn’t necessarily be seen?’

He considers. ‘I suppose you might spot them from the other side, but there’s a lot of trees in the way. When the level crossing was still open, there were people here all hours going across to the allotments. They used to park here and take their stuff over, but now they have to go via Walton Well. That’s – ’

‘I know where it is.’

Quinn looks around. There’s a pile of rusty garden equipment a few yards away. Wheelbarrows, hoes, empty bags of compost, rusting spades, broken terracotta pots.

He opens out the schedule. ‘So what was being done on the evening of the nineteenth?’

Heston points a thumb. ‘We finished taking down the old bridge and worked on the footings for the new one.’

‘Wait, are you telling me you’ve been digging bloody great holes in an area where any Tom, Dick or Harry can just walk straight in?’

Heston bridles. ‘I can assure you we follow approved Health and Safety practices at all times – this area is completely cordoned off.’

Quinn looks back the way they came. There’s fencing all right, but it’s only loose panels, and he reckons he could force his way in. If he had to. If he had a good enough reason.

He turns back to Heston. ‘Can you show me? Exactly what you were doing?’

They walk over to the new footbridge, where the pillars are beginning to rise above the ground.

‘How deep were the foundations?’

‘We’d planned for three metres,’ says Heston, ‘but when we started digging it just kept filling up with water. Port Meadow’s a flood plain, so we knew it was going to be an issue, but it was a lot worse than we’d expected. We ended up going down more like six.’

‘That’s what you were doing that Tuesday night?’

‘Right.’

‘And if there’d been something in the bottom of that hole – something as small as a child – you’d definitely have noticed? Even in the dark?’

Heston blanches. He has granddaughters. ‘Jesus – do you really think someone – ? But the answer’s yes – we’d have noticed. We had arc lights and we were pumping the water out the whole time, so we could see what was down there. No way my lads would have missed something like that.’

‘Right,’ says Quinn, folding up the schedule and handing it back. ‘Two steps forward, three steps back.’

But Somer is still looking at Heston. Who isn’t making eye contact.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she says. ‘Something that wasn’t to do with “your lads”.’

Heston flushes. ‘It’s way off – I just can’t see it happening – ’

‘But?’

He eyes her for a moment, then points beyond the foundations. ‘When we took the old bridge down we heaped the waste over there – you can see where the pile was. Concrete, bricks, ballast – you name it. Anyway, the contractor collected it all that night – we weren’t allowed to do it during the day. Health and – ’

‘ – Safety. Right,’ says Quinn. ‘And which contractor was it?’

‘Firm in Swindon. Mercers.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ says Quinn. ‘There was a pile of rubble over there that afternoon – the nineteenth. But that night this firm of yours – ’

‘Nothing to do with me, mate. I don’t decide who gets hired.’

‘OK, I get it. Anyway, they came that night and took the waste away.’

‘Yes, but if you’re suggesting someone could have buried something in there and the guy they had on the grabber didn’t spot it, you’re way off. It’s not the bloody movies, that sort of thing just doesn’t happen.’

‘What exactly did they do with the waste, sir?’ asks Somer quietly.

His shoulders sag a little. ‘They trucked it back to their recycling depot. They crush it then turn it into gravel – stops it going to landfill.’

Quinn stares at him, then shakes his head, trying to dispel the picture it conjures. ‘Jesus.’

‘Like I said,’ says Heston quickly, ‘you’re barking up completely the wrong tree. It just wouldn’t happen.’

‘Even though it was in the dark – and even though I’m guessing you’re not so bothered with arc lights for a simple loading job like that?’

‘I told you. It wasn’t my lads. You’ll have to talk to Mercers.’

‘Oh, we will, Mr Heston. We will.’

As Quinn turns to go, Somer takes a step towards him. ‘Was it luck then or did they know?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Whoever it was – who killed Daisy – was it just luck they came here the day the waste was being collected? Or was there some way they could have known?’

Quinn looks back at Heston, who shrugs. ‘We leaflet the whole area every time there’s likely to be worse noise than usual. Doesn’t stop the complaints, but at least they can’t claim they weren’t informed.’

‘So that would cover the demolition work?’

‘Sure. That’s one of the noisiest jobs. The leaflets went out the end of the previous week. Everywhere within a mile radius of the site.’

‘Including Canal Manor?’

‘You kidding? We get more complaints from them than anywhere else.’

***

At 1.00 Quinn calls from the site to update me. ‘We had a closer look at the security barrier before we left. And I was right – on the far side, where they attached the panels to the car-park fence, it’s just held together with cable ties. And someone definitely got in that way – all the ties have been cut through. No one noticed because the whole area’s overgrown with brambles and whoever did it just pushed the panel back where it was before. And I’ll bet my mortgage that’s where those red stains we found on the gloves came from. I’ve got blackberry juice all over my sodding suit.’

I smile. I shouldn’t, but I do.

‘I’m going to drive to Swindon now,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t sound good, but I need to see for myself.’

‘You want forensics to meet you there?’

‘Not yet, boss. Let’s wait and see if there’s something for them to find first.’

‘OK, I’ll send Everett to cover for you at the crossing.’

I lose him then as a train goes past in a shriek of hot white noise. Then, ‘Any news from Gislingham?’

I sigh. ‘I left a message. But no, no news.’

‘Poor bastard. Let’s hope that’s a good sign.’

I hope so too, but my heart fears otherwise.

***

Interview with Barry Mason, conducted at St Aldate’s Police Station, Oxford

25 July 2016, 1.06 p.m.

In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC A. Baxter, Miss E. Carwood (solicitor)

AF: For the purposes of the tape, Mr Mason has just been arrested on suspicion of the murder of his daughter, Daisy Elizabeth Mason. Mr Mason has been made aware of his rights. So, Mr Mason, am I correct in assuming that someone in your profession would own a wide variety of Personal Protective Equipment?

BM: Yeah, what of it?

AF: We discovered a jacket, hard hat and safety boots in the back of your pick-up, and there were several similar items in your house.

BM: And?

AF: Do you own gloves of that type as well?

BM: Couple of pairs.

AF: Could you describe them?

BM: What, are you an insurance assessor now?