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Number three: they had done a little digging on his business, but the fact that the Heart of Hope records were close to half a century old had meant a lot of it had got stuck through hard-copy bureaucracy, with a bunch having been ravaged by the festering mould that made O’Neill’s attic smell like a dog’s armpit.

Nevertheless, it was understood that O’Neill’s business hadn’t gone under because of financial difficulties; there had been something else at play there.

My assumption: not something that was exactly legal.

I spotted more case work and paperwork on my desk to sign off. On the top of it was a handwritten note:

Vivian wants to see you at some point. Good luck, darling. C.

Archives had sent through everything they could find on O’Neill. Most of it was records of his various charity works. Pictures of him donating books to schools, opening community centres. I was surprised there weren’t pictures of him healing the sick at this rate.

When I’d finally gathered enough courage, I took a big breath, put on my big-boy pants, and walked across the office.

I executed the classic two knocks on Vivian’s office door.

She was seated at her desk, gazing slack-jawed at her computer, and gestured me in without even attempting to acknowledge me or generally try and look in my direction.

‘Are you okay, Gareth?’ she asked in a monotone as I skulked into her office and slumped into the chair that I felt must have gained an imprint of me by now.

Her words may sound nice on paper, but her voice didn’t have one iota of empathy.

It was as if she was passively analysing how much spark I had left in the tank before becoming a complete crash, the way you’d ask a mechanic how many more miles you’ve got left in your Toyota Aygo before it breaks down on the M4.

‘I’m okay,’ I muttered, trying to rally my energetic, work-efficient self. ‘Just cracking on, you know.’

‘Okay,’ she said slowly, repeating my word but elongating the vowels to indicate that she clearly didn’t believe what I was saying. She shuffled some papers in front of her and began to speak, her eyes not even bouncing up to meet mine.

‘I spoke to the chief superintendent last night about the way this case was progressing. We think there is a high chance that we may have only just uncovered the tip of the iceberg, and for a case like this, where there is a particular…set of circumstances behind it, we’ve decided to go in hard.’

I didn’t want to feel any more smug, but I had begged and begged for Vivian to investigate this case, and now it had the attention of the chief superintendent.

Although, that did seem peculiar – those at such high levels never normally got involved in cases like this.

Was this because of the letter from the police chief that I had found in O’Neill’s attic? How were they connected to this?

Vivian paused and looked upwards, still avoiding my gaze, but I saw her eyes rapidly scanning left to right. She had memorised this whole speech already. This was simply a monologue she was reciting, that I was being forced to listen to.

‘With this case, Gareth, I think you’re too closely connected…’

True.

‘…and I believe it goes above your experience level.’

Dick.

‘Not only has this happened right on your doorstep, but there is also a likelihood that your wife could be brought in as a suspect.’

What? Fran? They thought Fran could have killed him? Were they on crack?

‘I want you to have complete and utter ignorance to this case. Darren, Steve and Cecilia will be briefed this morning about not involving you in any aspect of it. Let me say that if you do try and get involved, it may be grounds for severe disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear?’

I stared back at her for a moment. She was ready for a fight.

I could see her fingers drumming on the pen nervously, and I could just about make out the vibrations that her tapping foot was causing across the carpet floor.

This was all completely ridiculous, but little did Vivian know, I was a total and utter people-pleaser.

‘Absolutely,’ I said, trying to muster something of a polite and understanding smile. ‘Not a problem.’

Vivian leaned back on her chair, folding her arms and slipping her hands against her ribs as if she was trying to hug herself in a weird kind of comfort embrace. I hadn’t known her long, but she looked nervous, as if she was the one in the wrong about doing this.

‘You’re not going to fight me on this?’ she asked, somewhat in disbelief.

‘I could put up more of a fight if you’d like?’ I replied. ‘I can get a little mad, maybe storm out and slam the door as hard as I can?’

She didn’t even attempt to crack a smile at my comedy attempt. I’d thought five years of marriage with Fran had given me some great sarcasm skills or, as Fran would describe it, ‘elegant sardonic wit’. And here it was, being used on people who didn’t even appreciate it.

‘I do have one question,’ I said as I edged towards the door, speaking against my better judgement. ‘If O’Neill was doing something a little shady, how did he get away with it for so long? No one picked up on it? Not at all?’

I spun around to see if Vivian was still looking at her computer, but she was looking directly at me for the first time today. For a fraction of a moment, her eyes flashed with something that – to me – looked like a bit of pride. Or maybe it was trapped wind; I couldn’t be sure.

‘All I know is he was known to the police well before this case,’ Vivian emphasised, lifting both of her palms as if she was surrendering to me. ‘That’s all I know.’

So, I walked back to my desk, slid my hand underneath the collections of files, documents and folders, and balanced them precariously as I slowly strode over to Darren and dropped the pile in front of him. He jolted at the smack of the small forest’s-worth of paper hitting the table.

‘Good luck, mate,’ I said blankly.

I knew I needed to somehow find a way to clear Fran from the investigation before she got dragged in. But if the superintendent was getting involved, maybe there was far more going on than I had originally thought.

I felt my phone vibrate in my trouser pocket, and pulled it out to see ‘Husband Hunk’ had texted me.

Husband Hunk?

It took a second for the neurons in my brain to connect. I had accidentally taken Fran’s phone with me, a fact reinforced by the message preview on the phone screen:

You took the wrong phone, you plonker.

I scoffed to myself as I offered a small prayer that I hadn’t left any tabs open about how to be an alpha male in the bedroom. I typed in the pass code and swiped up on Fran’s phone to unlock and text back, but the notes section opened:

Clean the wine stain

Write the shopping list

Reset the camera

Get rid of the rubbish

Pack the shopping away

Feed the cat