Tyre tracks had been taken, but there were no witnesses and no CCTV on the private road leading to the house. The owner, with big plans to turn the property into a high-end leisure facility, wasn’t overly concerned about the money, just the fact that the oar boat had belonged to his grandfather, who had rowed it on the River Cam as a coxless pair for Magdalene College in the 1930s. However, the unusual nature of such a piece of craftsmanship would make it more difficult to conceal and sell, which worked in their favour.

Kelly read that Allerdale House had passed to its current owner in March, after a long probate, but she also noticed that it wouldn’t entirely belong to him until a period of trust had elapsed. What really grabbed her attention, though, was Sebastian Montague-Roland’s comment that it was a shame that a visitor to the house had left earlier than scheduled, otherwise the burglars might have been interrupted and fled. Apparently, an old friend of his grandfather’s, George Murphy, had been staying there on his annual fishing trip.

Kelly left her office and went into the incident room.

‘Emma? The Allerdale case. Have you managed to get in touch with George Murphy yet?’

‘No, guv, he’s not answering his phone.’

‘Do we know who he is, and how long he stayed there?’

‘He was there a week and scheduled to return home yesterday, but presumably he left a day early. We’ve sent local uniforms to his address in Wanstead, east London, but there’s no answer. He isn’t at work either.’

‘Was he due to return to work today?’

‘Yup.’

‘I wonder why no one saw him around the lake. He must have gone shopping, or bought a paper.’

‘None of the folk interviewed have mentioned it so far, guv.’

‘I would have thought Graeme would have known. He’s always sailing past, rubbernecking to get a glimpse of the place.’

‘Guv?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask him about it. I don’t suppose we have a photo of George Murphy?’

‘Not to hand, but he should be on the Ravensword website.’

‘Ravensword? Why have I heard of that?’

‘It’s a massive pharmaceutical company in the East End of London. That’s where he works; he’s a scientist.’

Kelly’s heart sank. She was reminded of when she lived on Old Ford Road with Matt. Lazy Sunday afternoons in the pub in Bow Wharf on the Regent’s Canal. She squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples.

‘You all right, guv?’

Kelly smiled and nodded. Matt Carter came into her head again. Matt the twat.