Doggett spins a full circle in his chair. “Thorogood? And he’s a vicar? He’s bloody made that up!” He jumps out of the chair as though springing into action but instead ends up pacing the tiny room like a disgruntled tiger, elbowing past detectives who can’t quite keep out of his way. “All right,” he says, changing tack entirely. “Gerald Cartwright left home in his car just after six on the morning of Monday, the twenty-sixth of July, 2010, and drove to Hope station.” He stumbles as he reaches the end of the room too quickly, makes a frustrated turn, and pulls out a notebook. “We established this because that’s where we found his car. It was assumed he caught the six thirty-two train to Sheffield, as was his custom, at which point he would have changed for the seven twenty-seven service to St. Pancras. He was then supposed to be catching the tube to Heathrow and a flight on to Germany. When he failed to arrive for his meeting in Frankfurt, a call was made to his office in London. They tried him at home and on his mobile repeatedly for five days. No one called the police. Finally a neighbor”—he looks at his notes—“Edna Burnside, rang his secretary at nine fifty-six a.m. on Monday, the second of August. She then rang the police. Our investigation proved he never got on the plane to Germany. We assumed that somewhere between leaving his car at the village station and catching his plane at Heathrow, Gerald Cartwright was either snatched or did a runner.” He sits back in the chair and then immediately gets up again. “Some poor sod looked at CCTV at Sheffield, on the trains, and along just about every conceivable tube route he could have taken. And found absolutely bugger all.” He looks up from his notebook. “Which isn’t very surprising with hindsight, since we can now safely assume he never left home in the first place.” He collapses back into the chair.

“We don’t know it’s him yet,” Tyler reminds him.

Doggett narrows his eyes. “Until Elliot tells us otherwise, we’ll assume it is. Now, assuming he never made the train, whatever happened to him happened the weekend of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of July. We know he held one of his infamous bunga-bunga parties that weekend but—surprise, surprise—we never did track down anyone who would admit to being there. We know it took place, though, because it was catered for in advance and got cleaned away afterward by the hired help.”

“Any suspects?” Daley asks.

Doggett looks at Tyler, encouraging him to take over. “DI Doggett believes Cartwright’s son could be involved.”

Daley nods. “He was a bit of a shifty little bastard.”