Aiming her torch at her wellies, she began to inspect the floor for fresh footprints, finding a track made by a heavyset pair of boots that had recently scuffed grip marks into the accumulated muck. For want of a better idea, she followed their path, skirting the perimeter to the farthest side, where something seemed to have caught the person’s interest; the prints circled a small section of a sheltered corner, the marks deepening at several points as if the person had crouched for a closer look. Whatever they might have found had since been removed, however, and Rosie kicked at the dirt, her frustration boiling over. As avoidance strategies went, this current escapade was an extreme one, even by her standards. She should be at home, putting the heating on, lighting a fire, and drinking inadvisable amounts of caffeine. She made an abrupt about-turn, resolved on going back and chewing off a couple of fingernails while she waited for Jem.

She was midway across the rear wall, almost to the opening for the stairwell, when she saw the light. It vanished in a heartbeat, as if someone had switched on a torch but then extinguished it immediately. Without making a sound, Rosie panned her own torch in the same direction, finding nothing at first and then glancing the beam off a small scurrying figure. The figure froze in the light, bent low in an effort to remain concealed, before springing up and starting to run. The motion made the hood on his jacket fall back, but she couldn’t see his face, just short dark hair sticking out beneath a baseball cap.

“Hey! Stop!” Rosie yelled. “Stop! Police!” She set off after him, leaving the relative safety of the walls to sprint toward him in a direct line. Her torch beam jolted as she ran, giving her flashes of wooden planks and splintered glass. She heard a scuffle and a cry of distress, and paused to get her bearings before spotting her quarry picking himself up after a fall no more than twenty yards ahead.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she called, well within earshot. “I’m a police officer. I’m looking for Tahlia Mansoor.”

Her appeal fell on deaf ears; he was already moving, heading left, away from the access window. She chased after him, so close now that she could hear panicked gasps and the creak of the flooring beneath him. He dodged right and jumped clear, legs stretching and feet skidding, and she stopped dead, surrounded by streaks of worn yellow paint, and realising too late exactly where he had led her.

“Fuck! Fucking shit.”