He stopped thinking about the Lennons and focused on Helen Philips’ arse, snug in a pair of designer jeans, as she led him towards the study, pausing only to look at his reflection. He found it impossible to walk past a mirror without gazing at himself, and who could blame him? If being handsome was a crime, he’d have to arrest himself. He smirked at his little joke and ran a hand through his thick black hair.

‘Um . . . Detective Inspector?’ The Philips woman stood in a doorway, checking him out. ‘The computer’s in here.’

He knew this was going to be a waste of time. Some internet troll pretending to know what had happened to the missing kids. What next – a clairvoyant who was receiving messages from the dead? He’d just wanted an excuse to come and meet the Philips family, do something productive, get away from the fucking search teams. The need to push this investigation forward, to achieve a breakthrough, made Winkler’s bones ache. Lennon was a screw-up, especially since his wife had gone infanticidal. Anyone with eyes could see that – but for some reason the guv was blind where Patrick was concerned. Well, he was going to show her what a real detective looked like. He was going to solve this case, even if he had to do it on his own. Thinking about it made him feel like a maverick cop in a movie, the hero bucking the system, the rebel outsider. He drifted into a reverie in which his colleagues stood and applauded him, the papers called him HERO COP, the Prime Minister invited him to Downing Street to ask him what could be done about crime. Maybe the PM would make him a Tsar. He fancied himself as a Tsar . . .

‘Are you alright?’

‘Huh? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking what a nice place you have.’

‘Right. Well, thanks. But do you want to see the messages I received on Facebook?’

He gave her his most charming smile. ‘I certainly do.’

He followed her into a study, crammed full of smelly books – Winkler was proud that he didn’t have a single book in his own house – along with overflowing manila folders almost toppling from shelves, with posters from art exhibitions and postcards stuck all over the walls.

Helen sat down at an iMac and navigated to Facebook. Winkler stood behind her, breathing in her scent. He wondered idly if she preferred to go on top, or if she liked it from behind.

‘This is the message, detective.’