‘Tell him!’ Penny giggled in her easy, matter-of-fact way. ‘If he’s getting under your feet, kick him back to work. He’s bored, Maggie. I never had this with Charlie, ’cos we got Jack once he was old enough to be interesting.’ Penny laughed. ‘Babies don’t do much, and the novelty quickly wears off.’

*

It was 9.30 p.m. and Ridley was in his office, arranging statements into chronological order for a court appearance later in the week. His obsessive nature came into its own when prepping for court and this showed in his track record. The very sight of Ridley taking the stand made defence lawyers tremble, because they knew they’d not be able to shake his testimony or him. He was rock solid.

Ridley’s satisfying evening of paperwork, however, was interrupted by a phone call from DI Joseph Gifford, from Chipping Norton. ‘Simon,’ Gifford boomed down the line. ‘Couple of minutes for me?’ Gifford didn’t introduce himself, nor did he need to. His deep, resonating voice had an upper-class tone, but his tendency to lengthen the last word of every sentence betrayed his Midlands roots which he was clearly ashamed of. ‘Got this bugger of a case, not unlike your Wimbledon Prowler and I’m after a bit of advice.’ Reluctantly putting his court case preparation aside with a sigh, Ridley listened.

‘Three years ago, there was a burglary in Kingham. Big house set back off the main through road, no CCTV.’ Gifford always used short, clipped sentences, leaving the listener to fill in the blanks. ‘These people, Simon . . . too much moolah. Losing the odd item of jewellery means nothing. Insured to the hilt. They just want to move on, you know. So, these bloody criminals are getting away with it. No one’s on my side, that’s the problem. Privacy, you see, that’s the currency here. The victims won’t even give statements half the time. Rentals as well, that’s another problem. Some bloody actor or singer or somesuch will hide away in a rental – top secret, like anyone gives a shit. They’ll tell me nothing, bring their own protection team, not let us do any security checks and then, when they get targeted, it’s my fault!’

‘This is still going on, then, is it?’

‘Every few months. And they’re just the ones we get to hear about. Could be more. It’s a political balancing act. Iron fist in a velvet glove was never more appropriate than right here, right now. But . . . things have just got more serious and something needs to be done. Fast.’ Ridley sipped his tea as Gifford described the scene at the last house that had been burgled.

*