Standing behind the sergeant, Cooper breathed deeply. A whole miasma of smells had been released by the opening of the door – not just the aroma of the chicken curry that had been eaten recently, but a small army of scents that competed with it for attention. Some of the smells were dark and musty, others sharp and metallic. Cooper longed to get inside the van and absorb the sensations. But he stood waiting patiently while the sergeant urged the occupants out into the welcoming arms of his constables.

‘Come on, come on. Let’s have you, son.’

‘Oh God, hang on then.’

The face disappeared for a few seconds, and there was a heaving as a body was hauled from a sleeping bag. The sergeant kept a hand causally on the door. Finally, a young man emerged, bundled in clothes and muttering. He sat on the step of the van until one of the PCs helped him up.

‘And your girlfriend as well. Out here.’

A second figure came out of the gloom, a slight, narrow-shouldered figure, moving more slowly, like someone still half-asleep. No – more than half-asleep, an actual sleep walker, with eyes that were barely aware of what was around them, as if they were focused on a dream world that no one else could see. This one said nothing, merely peering from a mass of tangled blond hair at the watching faces with faintly inquisitive eyes. Not angry or nervous, thought Cooper. Not frightened or aggressive. Just slightly puzzled, as if she had noticed an unfamiliar noise or spotted an animal she didn’t recognize. She was clutching a blanket to her chest with thin, pale hands.

Cooper left Fry’s side and moved a step closer to the van and took another sniff. There was no scent of drugs that he recognized. If they had been smoking cannabis inside the van, it would be detectable to the nose. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been taking something else. He looked at the sergeant, who nodded in agreement. It might be an excuse for searching the van, if they wanted it. They could get a dog down here and take the vehicle apart in no time.

‘Are you the owner of this vehicle?’ the sergeant asked the youth with the straggly beard.

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ he said. ‘And it’s not nicked.’

‘Right. Let’s have your names.’

‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’

‘Names. You first.’ The sergeant pointed at the youth.

‘Homer Simpson,’ he said.

Cooper and Fry smiled. At first, the youth might actually have thought they were appreciating the joke. But advance information was very useful.

‘Nice try, Calvin,’ said Fry.

He looked surprised, then deflated.

‘It is Calvin Lawrence, isn’t it? Of Benson Street, Stockport?’

‘Is it me you’re after?’

‘Depends what you’ve done.’

‘I haven’t done anything. How did you know my name?’