Stanford shook his head. ‘There’s no CCTV in the majority of the Common. In the summer of 2018, a wildlife survey was done, mainly around the ponds and in the deeper areas of woodland. There were some cameras placed in trees hoping to catch owls by night and kestrels by day doing their thing. We got all of that video footage, but it gave us nothing. We’ve tried, Mike, we really have. This sneaky little fucker is driving me crazy.’

Mike smiled and repeated his advice to extend the perimeter. The only advice he then added, was that Stanford should review all CCTV footage himself, because you can’t buy experience; and besides, the neck that’s on the line should be the one to do the make-or-break work. That was Mike’s philosophy and it had always served him well.

By nine o’clock, Jack, Mike and Stanford had burned up the carbs from a heavy meat feast pizza and were trying to find their third wind with slow-release energy from nuts and fruit. But it was no use. They were about to call it a day and head for the pub, when Mike piped up, ‘Who’s this guy on the mobility scooter, Rich? He’s around every day in the winter, but not the summer. Is he cutting through the Common to get somewhere? Does he live or work nearby?’

At eight the next morning, four uniforms were working alongside Jack, Mike and Stanford, tracking the flat-cap-wearing man on a small red mobility scooter and a hooded man in tennis whites carrying a racquet case. They seemed to be the same build and, crucially, both carried an identical rucksack. One or other of these men, it turned out, was seen during the day of each burglary – but never both at the same time. Jack was certain this was the same man, using two different disguises, to hide in plain sight and recce the target house before coming back to burgle that same night.

The man, regardless of how he was dressed, behaved in a very specific manner. He would disappear into the Common and then emerge at another exit hours later. But the final time he emerged, whether dressed as a wannabe Nadal, or as an innocuous disabled man, was always at the Copse Hill end of the Common, where a light grey Mercedes was waiting for him. It was parked on a different street each time, always with a heavy treeline to hide the number plate from prying CCTV. But this, they now realised, was the centre of Stanford’s fish tail – the Merc.

Nadal or Ironside, as their Prowler was now affectionately nicknamed, would stay in the Merc until the dead of night. Then, dressed in dark clothing, he’d head back into the cover of the Common. From there, he could pop out anywhere.