“Chief Inspector Deveney is waiting for you in the kitchen, sir,” said the constable. The gate moved silently as he opened it and led them through. “There’s a path just here that goes round the back. The scene-of-crime lads will have some lamps rigged up shortly.”

“No sign of forced entry?”

“No, sir, nor any tracks that we’ve been able to see. We’ve been careful to keep to the stones.”

Kincaid nodded in approval. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness within the precincts of the garden wall, he could see that the house was large and stolidly Tudor. Red brick, he thought, squinting, and above that black-and-white half timbering. Not the real thing, surely-more likely Victorian, a representation of the first migration of the well off into suburbia. A faint light shone through the leaded panes in the front door, echoed by faint glints from the upstairs windows.

Carefully he knelt and touched the grass. The lawn that separated them from the house felt as smooth and dense as black velvet. It seemed that Alastair Gilbert had lived very well.

The flagged path indicated by the constable took them along the right side of the house, then curved around to meet light spilling out from an open door. Beyond it Kincaid thought he could see the outline of a conservatory.

A silhouette appeared against the light, and a man came down the steps towards them. “Superintendent?” He extended his hand and grasped Kincaid’s firmly. “I’m Nick Deveney.” An inch or so shy of Kincaid’s height and near his age, Deveney flashed them a friendly smile. “You’re just in time to have a word with the pathologist.” He stepped aside, allowing Kincaid, Gemma, and the still-silent Williams to enter the house before him.

Kincaid passed through a mudroom, registering a few pairs of neatly aligned wellies on the floor and macintoshes hanging from hooks. Then he stepped through into the kitchen proper and halted, the others piling up at his back.