But we had found a strip of pink cloth. Less than two minutes after I’d called it in, a helicopter had gone overhead and less than ten minutes after that the lead elements of the search team in Aymestrey had arrived, red-faced, sweating and proving that they were much fitter than I was. They helped secure the site, but as the numbers started to pile up me and Beverley made a tactical retreat.

Windrow and Edmondson invited me down to the nick where we had a two-hour discussion about what led me up that particular path at that particular time. The problem being that a search team had done the whole length of the Mortimer Trail on Day 2 and that strip of pink fabric had not been there when they did it.

When this was reported at the briefing a ripple went through the ranks. I knew what they were thinking – a kidnapping, a plucky but futile escape attempt, recapture by the kidnapper, followed by panic. Followed, with remorseless logic, by death and disposal.

When it was over I slipped out onto the terrace to clear my head.

It was still close enough to sunset for the sky to be dark blue rather than black, but it was already cooler. There was a distinct breeze coming from the west and with it snatches of James Brown and the hum of generators – the drone of a funfair as unmistakable as a bagpipe warming up. Much closer below me I could hear the restless murmur of the media pack as they lapped at the walls of the station.

My phone pinged. The caller ID showed ‘withheld’ but I knew who it was.

Y haven’t you found girls yet?

Beverley was waiting for me outside the cowshed – which would have been encouraging on just about any other night. The door was open and the light was on, casting a yellow rectangle across the bottom of the garden and into the empty orchard beyond.

Either I’d left the door open or Beverley had broken in.

‘Dominic’s mum gave me the spare keys,’ she said.

‘Did you have a good rummage?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m going to bed. You can do what you like.’

‘You’re fucking unnatural, you are,’ she said,

‘Oh, don’t start.’

She stepped over into my line of sight.

‘I understand you’ve got self-control and all that,’ she said. ‘I get it. But you’re just . . . fucking unnatural, Peter.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You can come to bed too, but I’m still going to go to sleep.’

‘Is that what you think I’m talking about?’ Beverley folded her arms across her chest.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’