‘What about the website? Should I try and make contact?’

Thinking of entrapment protocols, Naylor hesitates.

‘Yes, why not? But don’t use anything official, not yet. Campbell says I’m supposed to be leaving this alone, so I can’t authorise it, but you’ve probably got all kinds of random email addresses you could use. Or if you haven’t, set one up. Use your imagination. And for God’s sake leave the earphones out. I’m starting to think you’re antisocial.’

Hagen spends a few minutes setting up a new Yahoo email address, picking a jokey username, verifying it via his mobile, setting up an email notification on his phone. Opening the Contact page on the fake website, he tries to come up with a name halfway between believable and dubious, the kind any bloke might pick to register on a porn site. He comes up with Mick Rutter and keys it in below the new email address. When he comes to the ‘Message’ field he’s stuck, and settles on I’m interested in your products and price list.

Suitably generic, he thinks, and presses Send.

Ron has got the bit between his teeth. Naylor’s given him the remaining two addresses the DVLA supplied as previous owners of the Ford Focus, and the first is an address in Sevenoaks where traffic’s terrible and there’s nowhere to park. Figuring people are out at work, Ron takes a risk on blocking a driveway, and still has a three-minute walk to where he needs to go.

The address is an old Edwardian house, long ago converted into flats. There’s a scrubby garden out front where what was once a lawn is now overgrown with weeds, and a For Sale sign which looks like it might have been there quite a while. The curtains at the ground-floor windows are floaty, orange and drawn, which immediately makes Ron think it’s occupied by someone with some kind of habit.

The intercom at the door has a dent in it as if someone might have gone at it with a claw-hammer. There are buzzers for five flats, but only three of them have names, and none of them is the name he wants: Jennifer Lambert.

He presses one of the buzzers anyway, and waits. There’s no answer, so he tries a second.

There’s crackling, and a voice that sounds very far away says, ‘Yes?’

It’s hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman.

‘Can you let me in?’ says Ron.

‘Who is it?’

There’s a short silence in which Ron doesn’t reply.

‘Fuck off then,’ says the voice.

Ron presses a third buzzer. Moments later, he sees the orange curtain move, and stands back so whoever’s looking has a clear view of him and can see he’s respectable. He gives a casual wave.