Dominic tooled up five minutes later in a ten-year-old Nissan pickup truck that had been painted a non-standard khaki, dipped in dried mud up to the wheel arches and then randomly smacked with a sledgehammer to give it that Somali Technical look. I found myself checking to see if there was a mount for a fifty-calibre machine gun in the back.

‘It’s the boyfriend’s,’ said Dominic. ‘He got it second-hand.’

‘Who from?’ I asked. ‘Al Shabaab?’

Dominic gave me a blank look and then asked if I understood about ‘mates’.

I nodded. I knew about mates, people from before your attestation as a constable was even a thought in the mind of your career adviser. Some of them are going to break the law and some of those are going to expect you to look the other way. Unless you’re a total hard-hearted bastard there’ll be at least one who you think you’ve got an obligation to. Someone you’re willing to let slide, or at the very least stand them a pint when they finish a stretch inside. Every copper I know has a mate like that. They’re an embarrassment, a pain – and, if you’re really unlucky, a sackable offence.

Inside the cab the seats were patched and smelt of overheated dog.

‘Well, you see, I’ve got this mate who’s found something that might be relevant to the search,’ said Dominic as he deftly steered the massive four by four up past the village hall and onto what laughingly passes as a main road in Herefordshire. ‘Only I can’t go through the normal channels because she’s a bit of an addict.’

And a mate.

‘So if we find something?’ I said.

‘You can say it was your idea.’

‘My idea?’

‘Something suitably weird.’

‘That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Presumptuous is my middle name,’ said Dominic.

A kilometre further along we reached a crossroad where a crowd of people were assembled. Most of them were dressed in shorts or army trousers, had knapsacks slung over their shoulders and were wearing hats. I noticed that a few of them had Airwave sets clipped to their belts. Dominic slowed down and exchanged greetings with a couple before heading off again. I spotted Derek Lacey on the fringes of the group – looking grim.

‘Volunteers,’ said Dominic.

Volunteers are good news and bad news in a search. Good because they allow you to cover more ground and have local knowledge. Bad because no copper likes to take a civilian’s word that somewhere has been searched properly – we’re superstitious that way.