‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the menu on the wall in the kitchen – want me to photograph it and send it over?’

‘No need. A king prawn balti, something like that. Some poppadoms – oh and maybe some cheese naan. And some pickles. Maybe a tandoori chicken starter.’

‘And you’re not hungry?’ she said with a hint of sarcasm, her voice lightening up a little.

‘And something for yourself! I’m thinking about food now, and anyhow, we can always have leftovers tomorrow if we don’t feel like eating much,’ he said. ‘If you can call them, tell them I’ll swing by around 7 p.m.?’

‘I’d better tell them you’ll be there at 8 p.m.’

Grace was about to correct her, then realized it was just her mocking him. But she was right. He would invariably end up staying longer here than planned.

75

Friday 6 September

Mark Taylor sat in the square, boxy room at Police HQ, briefing his night-shift team of nine surveillance officers seated in front of him. Six male and three female, all in plain clothes, some deliberately scruffy, wearing reversible jackets and with a variety of caps and beanies stuffed in their pockets, others in varying degrees of smart casual. They would be joined soon by Sharon – Wazza – Orman, and they were aware three of their colleagues were in situ outside the subject’s house.

There was a nickname for everyone in this team, with many not able to recall the real names of their colleagues, due to how infrequently they were actually used. Nicknames were easier to use when communicating amongst the team.

A monitor on the wall behind him showed a view across a wide street of four nice-looking 1950s semi-detached houses. Two were rendered in white plaster; the other two, one with a red ring drawn around it, were in brick. The ringed one had a blue Fiesta parked in the drive; they had seen the subject pick it up from a local hire company. This house, like its twin, had a deeply recessed front door behind an arched porch.

On the top right of the screen was displayed the time in hours, minutes and seconds. Immediately below that were GPS coordinates. It was the start of the evening rush hour and a steady stream of cars, motorcycles, lorries, vans, buses, cyclists and pedestrians passed by in both directions.

Taylor thumbed the remote he was holding, freezing the image, then turned back to his team. ‘This is Nevill Road, Hove, taken twenty minutes ago, from Gummy’s van inside the Coral Greyhound Stadium car park, almost directly across the street. The van’s marked all over with the Coral logo, and it’s one of three parked up together, so it won’t draw any attention. Gummy’s going to remain in situ for the long haul.’

They all knew what this meant. Gummy – Jason Gumbert – would be concealed inside a crate in the back of the van, videoing through the rear windows, which were two-way mirrors. He would have several days’ supply of food and water, would pee into containers and, if he needed to, shit into plastic bags, which he would then seal.