‘Your name is Baldrick,’ said Dominic. ‘And I claim my ten pounds.’

One thing old jazzmen and old police officers both agree on is that it’s important to get your rest in when and where you can. Which is why I drove back to the cowshed, had another shower to cool off, lay down on the bed in my underwear and tried not to think for a bit.

It was hot, even with the doors open. But a little bit of a breeze touched the curtains and brought in the smell of grass and a sweeter smell that I thought I now recognised as cowslip in bloom, although it could have been silage for all I knew.

There were a couple of strands of dusty spider web hanging from one edge of the ceiling. Dominic’s mum needed to invest in a proper extension duster or at least learn how to put a J-cloth on a stick.

I lay on my back and let the ceiling go in and out of focus.

My phone pinged – number withheld.

Do you think they were abducted by fairies?

I sat up and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Then I logged the call, contacted the DPS team on a separate phone to give them a heads up, and then texted back.

Why do you think fairies?

Who else?

Y not people?

No other leads.

This made me pause. It was the sort of sloppy thinking that Lesley, had she caught me doing it, would have pointed out – just because you don’t know something is there doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

And how would she know that we didn’t have any leads?

I called Inspector Pollock at the DPS.

‘She’s got a line into the secure net,’ I said. ‘Or access to someone with access privileges.’

‘Is it you?’ asked Pollock.

‘Nope,’ I said.

‘Of course not,’ said Pollock. ‘Because that would make my life easier.’

But not mine, I thought. I so hated being on the wrong side of the interview table.

‘If she’s following the same pattern as last time,’ said Pollock, ‘she’ll make one more response before changing SIMs – try to make the next question count.’

I thought about it for a bit, and then I thought about the tree outside in the garden and the futility of anger.

I miss you, I texted.

I waited, but she didn’t respond before it was time to go out that evening.

Dominic’s boyfriend was named Victor Lowell and was one of the new breed of farmers who got their market price updates via Twitter and drove their tractors listening to 50 Cent. He had floppy blond hair and the posh accent of someone who was privately educated but never got the memo about having to pretend to be just one of the blokes. He also owned the land he farmed which made him, notionally, the richest person I’d ever met.