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products.’
    ‘OK,’ Ashcroft said agreeably, ‘well policing is similar to that. We start each murder investigation with a process which has been informed by data collected over a great number of years, which gives us a set of certain characteristics, such as most murders are committed by someone known to the victim, and top of that list is their partner.’
    ‘Wait a minute…’
    ‘Wouldn’t you agree that it’s in the interests of this investigation to follow that procedure, to eliminate you from our enquiries as soon as we possibly can, so that all our resources and energy can be spent finding the person who did this?’
    James lowered his head, ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. Coupland nodded appreciatively at Ashcroft and continued with his questions. By the time the FLO had returned with two packets of biscuits: ‘Everyone likes chocolate digestives but you can’t beat Hobnobs for dunking,’ the tea had gone cold and Ashcroft had just finished reading James’s statement back to him. Shoulder’s sagging, James rubbed shaking hands over the stubble on his chin. ‘I wish to Christ we’d got married now,’ he said sadly, ‘grabbed our moment when we had it, but you never know it’s your only chance at the time, do you?’
    *
    They drove in silence for a while. ‘Poor sod.’ Coupland said.
    ‘Yeah,’ agreed Ashcroft. Still, you could never be too careful. ‘Check out their bank balances,’ Coupland instructed, ‘did he owe anyone any money? How was he really doing at work? What were their life assurance arrangements, had he recently set up a new policy?’ Ashcroft nodded, pulling out a small pad he jotted down a few notes, ‘I’ll go to his work and check what his colleagues have to say about him,’
    ‘Agreed,’ nodded Coupland, ‘and find out whether he’s been putting it about.’ Coupland sighed, it brought no pleasure always thinking the worst of people, but at least his opinion could only improve.
    They parked outside Donald Gillespie, the firm of accountants where Sharon had worked for five years. The office was situated on Barton Road, a two storey red brick building with a beauty salon upstairs. It was just past nine o’clock. Coupland watched someone open the blinds, sipping from a mug one handed as they carried on a conversation with a colleague behind them. They then moved on to unbolting the door. ‘Ever fancied a nice nine to five?’ Coupland asked, ‘Get home to the missus the same time every night, only dealing with your clients during the day?’ Greater Manchester Police’s clientele tended not to respect business hours. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ Ashcroft sighed, ‘too late for me now though, I’m no good for anything else.’ Coupland nodded glumly, like most cops he was entrenched in the chain of command, work involved following orders or giving them out, he wasn’t quite sure how it worked in civvy street, didn’t think he’d be too successful negotiating. ‘So is there a missus, then?’ Coupland asked, ‘Or even a mister?’ he added, mindful of the equality and diversity course he’d been sent on six months ago, a punishment from Curtis for addressing female civilians as ‘love’. The women hadn’t minded, but the newly promoted Superintendent had taken exception on their behalf. Flexing his muscles, likely as not. ‘There’s never been a mister,’ Ashcroft replied, ‘and no missus to speak of either, not anymore. It was a woman that drew me into the Met, only that’s where the fairy-tale ended. We were both from up north originally but she had a bee in her bonnet about moving to London. She’d have happily left if I hadn’t gone with her, same as she stayed put when I decided I’d had enough. She’s a DCI now.’
    ‘Doesn’t always work, both of you being in the job, especially if you want different things.’
    Ashcroft pulled a face. ‘She said I lacked ambition.’
    ‘Nice.’
    A girl in her late teens hurried up the road carrying