They left the car and walked over to the Mitsubishi, where Hawkins stood on tiptoe to peer in through the passenger window. Nothing was visible in the shadowy recess of the footwell, but when she moved to the rear door, a suspiciously rifle-shaped carry case occupied the back seat. She pointed it out to Frank.

‘Not a bad bit of detective work, that,’ he said, causing Hawkins to do a slow double take when she realized he was serious.

She curtseyed. ‘One tries.’

‘Aye.’ He grinned at her through the darkness. ‘Maybe there’s a proper detective behind all that corporate flannel after all.’

‘Thanks. I think.’

They headed for the downlit patio area behind the pub, passing stacked garden furniture hibernating beneath lazily fitted covers that flapped in the sharp winter breeze.

Hawkins tried the nearest double door. Finding it unlocked, she entered, drawing stares from nearby tables blasted by the rush of cold air.

Frank followed, letting the door bang, grimacing when one couple looked round at him. ‘Ah, shut your whining.’

Hawkins frowned and turned back to scan the bar for their quarry. She had planned a visit to the Sow and Pigs at some point, but hadn’t expected for it to be a focus this soon. To their left, what looked like a restaurant area had clearly finished serving for the night, several tables bearing the remnants of finished meals, two others still occupied by diners chatting as they polished off bottles of wine.

All too young, or too female, to be their man.

They moved through an archway and turned left, following the garble of music and raised voices towards an area filled with lower lighting and darker wood. Hawkins led her DI down a step, stooping instinctively as the ceiling dropped in what must have been the original part of the building, detecting the unmistakable scent of centuries-old, beer-infused wood. From compact speakers mounted around the walls, ‘Fairytale of New York’ ended, to be replaced by Chas and Dave rapping about rabbits. She checked the dozen or so scattered faces.

Up at the bar, a group of noisy shirt-wearers with loosened ties appeared to be toasting some kind of deal, watched disapprovingly by the middle-aged couple in a booth next to the roaring, guarded fire. Beyond them, four women took turns passing cards to a young waitress with a hand-held terminal. And in the far corner, a woman in a Bros T-shirt with a long-haired German shepherd at her feet sang along to Chas and Dave as her hands worked away at some kind of knitting.

The dog stood and came towards them, but the woman reached after it. ‘Bella! Behave!’

The animal obeyed, returning sullenly to her owner’s side.

Hawkins finished scanning the area, but there was no sign of their quarry.

‘Can’t see him,’ Frank said.

Hawkins nodded. ‘Let’s check with the staff.’