He headed out of the front door and ran along the pavement for a mile before leaping over a five-bar gate and skirting a ploughed field. After ten minutes at half-speed he was starting to sweat and he upped the pace and ran at full pelt for a mile, then started jogging, settling into an easy pace as his breathing gradually slowed. He cut through a copse of trees, ducking under low overhanging branches, then ran at full speed again until he reached another gate that he vaulted without breaking stride. He slowed again as he headed down a road that led to a line of shops. A bookmaker’s, a newsagent’s and an off-licence. He stopped off at the newsagent’s and bought himself a chilled bottle of Evian water, the Mail on Sunday and the Sunday Times. He drank the water and jogged the rest of the way home holding the newspapers.

Katra was loading the washing machine when Shepherd got back. He dropped his newspapers on to the kitchen table. ‘I’ll have that breakfast now, Katra,’ he said. ‘A couple of bacon sandwiches will hit the spot. I’ll shower first.’

Shepherd went upstairs, showered and shaved, and changed into black jeans and a yellow polo shirt. By the time he returned to the kitchen Katra had put two bacon sandwiches and a mug of coffee on the table. He thanked her and sat down.

He pulled the Sunday Times towards him and flicked through the sections, discarding those that he didn’t plan to read. He opened the main news section as he bit into one of the sandwiches and read through any articles that piqued his interest. The economy was limping along, the only growth industry seemed to be crime, the government was promising yet another crackdown on benefit fraud and councils were complaining that they were being swamped by immigrants. The only good news was that an unemployed single mother with three kids by three different fathers had won more than two million pounds on the National Lottery.

He turned the page and raised his eyebrows when he saw a huge photograph of the Athena, docking at Southampton harbour. There was also a map of the area where the ship had been seized, and photographs of Somali pirates in an inflatable. Shepherd scanned the faces but none of them were the men that he’d come across. It was probably a file picture.

On the left-hand page was a separate story on Katie Cranham under a large photograph of the girl standing with her parents in front of a rambling farmhouse in the Yorkshire dales. Katie looked much better than when Shepherd had last seen her, on the plane flying away from the Puntland airfield, but even though she was smiling at the camera Shepherd could see the sadness in her eyes. Katie’s father had his hand protectively around her shoulder and her mother was holding her hand as if they both feared that she would be taken away from them again.