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It was a greasy spoon Thorne had not come across so far, tucked away between a builder’s yard and a dental surgery, a couple of streets behind the market square. It didn’t appear to have a name, but probably because it didn’t need one. In the steamed-up windows were laminated pictures of the delights available within that almost certainly fell foul of the Trade Descriptions Act, but only someone without a sense of smell would need the help.

Whenever people talked about favourite smells, it was usually something airy-fairy like freshly cut grass or sea air. New books, for pity’s sake . . .

Thorne had started slavering when he was still a street away.

It was small, no more than half a dozen tables which were all taken, and Thorne spotted Bob Patterson straight away. He recognised the occupant of the adjacent table too; the chef-cum-poet from the Magpie’s Nest, with whom the farmer seemed to be chatting happily. Patterson still had a plateful, but it looked as though Shelley was about done. He reached for his jacket and tossed a few scraps of bacon rind to Patterson’s dog, which was lying beneath the farmer’s table.

They both nodded at Thorne as he passed on his way to the counter. He ordered the full English and took a mug of strong tea back to Patterson’s table, taking care not to kick the dog as he sat down.

‘Surprised she’s allowed in,’ Thorne said.

‘They all know her in here.’ Patterson dropped a morsel of his own and nodded towards the man behind the counter who was watching, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Me and the owner have a good relationship.’

‘You supply the bacon?’

Patterson looked horrified. ‘I hope you’re joking. This is mass-produced, factory shit.’ He pushed a piece of it into his mouth. ‘I’ve got a mate who gets them cheap eggs.’

Shelley stood up. He said, ‘I’m just off, but . . . ’

‘Checking out the competition?’ Thorne looked around. ‘I mean, I presume they’re open for lunch.’

Shelley scoffed. ‘Hardly.’

‘Had you down as the muesli type.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Fruit, maybe.’

The chef smiled thinly and lifted up a shoulder bag; battered, brown leather. Thorne guessed there was a notebook full of meaningless poetry in there, maybe a novel he could take out at an opportune moment. ‘Decent bit of grease doesn’t hurt once in a while though, does it? Oh . . . ’ He reached for the tabloid next to his empty plate and held it towards Thorne. ‘You seen this?’

Thorne looked at the picture, the headline. They were enough for the time being. He went back to his tea.

‘Talk about putting the cat among the pigeons,’ Shelley said. When it became clear that Thorne had no intention of responding, he dropped the paper on to Patterson’s table, then leaned down one final time to scratch the dog’s ears before he left.

‘Arrogant arsehole,’ Patterson said.

Thorne glanced up from his tea. ‘Looked like you were best mates when I came in.’

‘Just making conversation.’

‘You don’t still think he nicked your pig, do you?’

Patterson stared at him, a triangle of fried bread dripping from his fork. ‘Course I bloody don’t.’ He popped the bread into his mouth and carried on. ‘Because whoever took that pig had no intention of eating it, did they?’

Thorne’s food arrived and he got stuck in. He had put half of it away, almost managing to catch up with Patterson, before either of them spoke again.

‘He had a point though, didn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Him. Cut-price bloody Shakespeare.’ The farmer waved his fork in the direction of the door and then stabbed at the newspaper. ‘Changes things a bit, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Thorne said.

‘Course you have. We’re not all stupid round here, you know?’

‘Never thought you were.’

‘You’re involved.’ The farmer looked towards the paper again. ‘With that girl, with all of it.’

Glancing around, Thorne could see that several other customers were reading the same newspaper. He thought about the Harleys; another set of parents whose lives had suddenly been turned upside down. And he thought about a different girl and the things she had endured to protect her little sister.

‘I never intended to be,’ he said.

Patterson smiled, showing yellowing teeth, a sliver of tomato caught on the bottom set. ‘You get caught up, don’t you? When it’s your job. Something about pigs, I’m interested, I can’t help myself. Same for someone like you, I’m guessing. With murder.’

Hungry as he was, Thorne pushed the black pudding to one side. ‘You said you had some information.’

‘Well, let’s just say I’ve been putting things together.’ Patterson tapped the side of his head. ‘Not very difficult, not once people started hearing things and talking about them. That’s how I found out my pig wasn’t stolen to make bacon sandwiches.’

Thorne grunted, ate.

‘The pig’s important, I know that much.’ The farmer leaned forward. ‘Important to whoever it was took those girls. Killed one of them.’

‘Like you said, I’m involved.’ Thorne was trying to hide his impatience. ‘Bearing that in mind, I’m sorry to say that so far, none of this was exactly worth getting out of bed for.’

Patterson’s shrug suggested that he didn’t really care, that he had better to come. ‘So, obviously you know that this fella Bates is not the one, right? That the police have ballsed it up and the real killer’s still knocking around somewhere.’

Thorne nodded again. That was always going to be the problem with deliberately leaking bits of information in the hope it would spread. Eventually you would be the one being told things you already knew. ‘You said you had something to tell me about the man who stole your pig.’ Thorne dropped his voice. ‘The real killer.’

Patterson laid his knife and fork down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, I know he was on foot, for a start.’ He waited for a reaction then nodded down at his dog. ‘She barks at people she doesn’t know . . . well you’ve seen, haven’t you? But she’s not psychic, is she? She makes the din of the bloody devil if there’s any car coming towards the place, and she didn’t make a squeak that night. So, I reckon he parked up somewhere and walked the rest of the way. Probably stuck the piglet in a sack, something like that, then carried it back to the car.’ He nodded, pleased with himself. ‘Oh yeah, he certainly planned it all out.’ There was a hint of ‘you’re welcome’ in the look he gave Thorne before he went back to his breakfast. ‘So . . . do with that what you will.’

Thorne watched the farmer mop up what was left on his plate with a limp slice of toast and controlled the urge to tell him that his dog had probably worked as much out weeks ago. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Right, well I can’t hang around here gassing all day.’ Patterson pushed back his chair. ‘Things to do.’ He stood and nodded to the man behind the counter, then turned for the door without saying goodbye, the dog at his heels.

Behind him, Thorne could hear the owner shouting orders through to the kitchen. He watched the farmer leave, thinking that even if being busy meant filling cardboard boxes with yellowing magazines, at least the old man had plans. Thorne had left the house with the distinct impression that Helen was happy to be left alone, and he had no idea what he was going to do with himself.

I’m not ill, Tom . . .

He remembered the expression on Helen’s face; one that he had never seen before, that perhaps she would not recognise herself. Her mouth twisted in pain, or rage, or determination. Perhaps a mixture of all three. Her eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed on a spot somewhere on the far wall of that bedroom, as someone on an unsteady boat might focus on the horizon to avoid being sick.

Now, Helen needed time and space and he would give her as much of both as was necessary.

He looked at his watch. It was still only ten past eight.

Thorne ordered more tea and reached for the paper.