“He said to be back by end of shift.”

Anik entered the squad room. He guessed Laura was talking to Jack.

“Well, he won’t hear it from me,” she continued. “I’ll dig out the Fisher brothers’ records for you, it’s no problem—I’m on Missing Persons, but I can do both. You take care and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Laura hung up. She didn’t need to glance up to know that Anik had a disapproving look on his face.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just get on with your work,” she said.

“You sure it’s me you should be saying that to and not Jack?” Anik quipped, rather pleased with himself. Laura spun her chair and glared at him.

“I’m positive, DC Joshi. You know, being a sergeant is about understanding your team and how to get the best from them. With that in mind, I’m going to put the kettle on and make you a green tea to help you do the boring bits of the job, such as sitting at your desk trawling through Missing Persons.”

Laura stood and headed out before she said something she’d regret.

Jack had to double-check Ester’s address when he finally arrived, because the house he was now looking at was a stunningly beautiful beachside property in Seaview, just south of Ryde. How on earth could an ex-con afford this place? The road he’d come in on had brought him past a yacht club, brimming with blazered gents and Pimm’s-supping ladies all showing off their knees regardless of the fact that it was cloudy with a stiff breeze. Every other building was a hotel or B&B and the beach was a characterful combination of fine sand and rock pools. Boats were sprinkled throughout the calm sea, pushbikes outnumbered cars, grown-ups wore deck shoes whether they owned a boat or not, and children mostly wore no shoes at all. People sat on the sea wall with fish and chips, or a pint of beer, or both. On one stretch of sand, canoes stood up on their ends in what looked like a revamped bike rack. The houses were sensibly spaced, not crammed in like in big cities, and there was green space in between them. Seaview was allowed to breathe. Jack took in the stunning scenery, the calm, quiet feel, and the crisp clean air. I’d be bored shitless within minutes, he thought to himself.

Jack knocked at number 34 and the door was opened by a short, balding man. He had a wealth of hair in a semicircle that didn’t go higher than the top of his ears. He had a large gray mustache that left his mouth entirely to the imagination and he wore round, wire-rimmed glasses, as well as a tight white muscle T-shirt over his less-than-impressive abs, black shorts that stopped just above the knee, a black maid’s apron complete with white frill around the bottom edge, and pink slippers. A pair of bright yellow washing-up gloves poked out of one apron pocket and there was a bulge in the other apron pocket that—if Jack didn’t know better—was the size and shape of a pair of handcuffs. The short man stood and looked at Jack, seemingly with no intention of speaking first.