Wilde uttered a low curse. This was all they needed. He consulted his watch. The journey back had been frustratingly slow and now it was close to dawn. When his tank got close to empty, he had to find a motorbike and siphon fuel from it, leaving a pound note in the saddlebag with a scrawled note of apology for the theft. This stealing business – clothes from a washing line in Germany and now this – really had to stop.

He couldn’t help being angry with Lydia. The Weirs’ house in Girton was the last place she should have gone. Far too obvious. Despite her note, he checked the garage to reassure himself that the car was still there. His first instinct was to ride straight out to Girton, but sense told him to call first. He crossed the road and dialled from the kiosk. The phone rang and rang. He was about to replace the receiver when he heard a click at the other end.

‘Hello?’

Silence. But there was someone there. He was sure he could hear breathing.

‘Hello, Edie? Rupert?’

Nothing. The line went dead and Wilde was left looking at the phone, his heart pounding.

Within moments, he was back on the Rudge, heading north through the dark, deserted streets. A route he knew well. He saw a beat constable crossing the road, but didn’t slow down, merely swerved round him, leaving a shaking fist in his rear-view.

Edie and Rupert Weir lived in a large detached house in a wide, pleasant street not far from Girton College. It had a short driveway leading to a gravel forecourt. Wilde ditched the motorcycle at the kerb between a couple of cars, neither of which he recognised, and approached on foot. In his pocket, he gripped his pistol – the same one Sunny had given him in Germany.

He stopped. In the shadows he saw two figures watching the house from a concealed position to the right of the house, next to the garage and shed. Even in the gloom it was clear he was looking at Bodie Cashbone and Sunny Somerfeld.

But why here? Eaton, of course. It had to be Eaton putting two and two together and coming up with Rupert Weir. The larger, plusher of the cars parked on the road must be theirs. But what were they doing standing there in the shadows? Waiting for him, he supposed. Had they been in the house, looking for Lydia and Klara? Had that been Cashbone’s sinister breathing on the phone?

No, some instinct told him that they were not the ones who had picked up the phone. In which case, someone else was in the house. Or had been. Someone even more dangerous. So where were Lydia, Klara and Edie?