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“I don’t reckon he’s been here in a while.
    Helen glanced back through the window. The room was so tidy it looked as though it had been primed for a house viewing.
    “Can I help you?”
    Helen jumped at the voice. She darted round to face a short man with grey hair and inordinately long, fluffy sideburns. He jerked back, momentarily startled. The oversized fleece he wore gave him the appearance of a hobbit.
    She quickly recovered herself, reached into her pocket and flashed her ID.
    “Hampton Police,” Pemberton said, as he proffered his own badge.
    Only then did Helen notice that the man was actually standing in the garden next door, a metre high stone wall separating them. “I’m DCI Lavery and this is DS Pemberton,” she said. “We were just hoping to have a word with Mr Paton.”
    “Jules?”
    She nodded.
    “He’s not there, been away a few days.” He flicked his head briefly towards his own front door. “The wife’s feeding the cat.”
    Helen glanced up at the neighbouring house. Dark ivy snaked up and interlocked around the downstairs window. An empty hanging basket hung beside the porch. “You live here?”
    “Yes.”
    “May I ask for how long?”
    “Twenty years.” He screwed up his eyes. “What’s all this about?”
    “Just some routine enquiries,” she said. “How long has Mr Paton been your neighbour?”
    He shrugged. “About eighteen months.” He looked from one detective to another. “This sounds serious.”
    She ignored his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?”
    “Stuart Wilson.”
    “Thank you, Mr Wilson. Do you have any idea where he has gone?”
    “Away for a while.” He pushed his mouth down at the corners. “Didn’t say where. The wife is feeding the cat until Saturday.”
    “Do you have a contact number for him?”
    “No. All I know is the wife spoke to him before he left. You’re welcome to call round and speak to her, although I doubt she’ll be able to tell you any more. She’ll be here in the morning.”
    “We’ll be back in the morning then.” Helen ran her eyes over his clothes. Underneath the large fleece he was wearing navy overalls.
    He caught her interest. “I’ve just come in from work,” he said. “On the late shift at Blewsons warehouse round the corner.”
    Helen smiled and nodded. “Thank you for your help.” She pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed it over. “If you do see or hear from Mr Paton, could you call this number?”
    After taking down the Wilsons’ contact details, they made their way back to the car in silence. It wasn’t until they were inside, battling with seat belts over heavy overcoats, that Pemberton eventually spoke up, “Why would a man, who has gone away for a while, secretly return to his ex-girlfriend’s house and crawl through the open loft space to beat and murder her?”
    “The holiday could be an alibi.”
    “Maybe she’d met someone else?” Pemberton said. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together.
    “They were separated.”
    “Perhaps he still harboured feelings for her?”
    Helen shook her head. She didn’t buy the spurned lover argument. “More like she had something, something that was worth a lot of money to him; something that was worth pulling her house to pieces to find.”
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know. Drugs, maybe? Henry Spence suggested they were both users. She wouldn’t be the first to store it in her loft. Perhaps he thought he’d help himself and when it wasn’t there, got angry?” Pemberton rested his hands in his lap and stared out into the darkness as he considered this theory. “It would also explain why he beat her first,” Helen added.
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, why engage in combat? If you have a gun, you can kill from a distance. No need to get your hands dirty. Whoever did this had a good go at her, then practically wrecked the house looking for something.”
    “Must have been expecting a fair bit,” Pemberton