Mercifully I didn’t have to do the briefing in Windrow’s narrow little office, but instead on the first-floor terrace that stuck out in front of the canteen like the flying bridge on a landlocked boat. It may have been an unconscious desire to avoid conferring too much legitimacy on the Falcon assessment, but it was most likely so that Windrow could have a crafty fag. We stood there in the cool morning shade enjoying the chill air as the eastern horizon turned gold under a powder blue sky.

It was Day 6 and things were getting a little bit desperate. Edmondson handed me a newspaper with the headline. POLICE FAILING HANNAH AND NICOLE SAY VILLAGERS.

‘If you don’t feed the dogs,’ said Windrow, ‘you’re going to get bitten.’

I checked the by-line, because it always pays to know who not to talk to next time you’ve got something juicy to trade. But I didn’t recognise the name – Sharon Pike.

‘Writes columns in a couple of the nationals,’ said Edmondson.

‘What’s she doing on the front page?’ I asked.

‘She considers herself a local,’ said Windrow.

‘She has a cottage in Rushpool,’ said Edmondson. ‘I hear she spends most of her time in London, though.’

I suddenly remembered her from me and Dominic’s fruitless search for village vestigia. She’d been a slight white woman with black hair, dressed in skinny jeans and a salmon-coloured cardigan. I remembered that she’d asked a lot of questions and I hurriedly reviewed my memory to see how much trouble I might have talked myself into.

Windrow must have seen my expression. ‘Hasn’t mentioned you yet,’ he said.

I didn’t like the sound of that ‘yet’ one bit.

Windrow lit a second cigarette off the first and took a deep drag as if trying to fill every cubic centimetre of his lungs.

‘I’m stocking up for when I have to go back inside,’ he said.

Edmondson checked his watch and glanced at where the sun was springing up above the distant hills.

‘So what’s your assessment?’ he asked.

‘Before I start, sir, I need to ask you how much actual Falcon information you want to hear.’

Edmondson blinked and Windrow scratched his chin.

‘How much do you normally give out?’ asked Windrow.

‘As much as people are comfortable with,’ I said. ‘Some people don’t like to use the M-word. Some don’t mind that, but want explanations for things we can’t explain.’

‘Lad,’ said Windrow, ‘we’re so desperate we’ll take whatever we can get.’