The man’s eyes lit up with excitement. He crushed out his cigarette, opened the door, and they entered. It smelled of damp clothes and grilled meat. A middle-aged woman was sitting watching a movie in German on the video screen, a bottle of wine open beside her, two glasses on the table. The man spoke to her in German briefly. She froze the film, turned and waved at the two detectives, then said something to her husband and held up the bottle.

‘My wife asked if you would like a drink? A glass of wine?’

‘Nein, danke! You are very kind. Can we go to the front seats?’

‘Please, be free. You want lights in the cabin off or on?’

‘Off, as they are, danke.’

Grace and Branson settled into the front seats, Grace with the left-hand-drive vehicle’s steering wheel in front of him. They now had an unobstructed view, through the rain-blurred windscreen and side window, both of the Range Rover and of the road and clifftop ahead.

As he lowered himself in his seat to be as inconspicuous as possible, Branson murmured, ‘Looks like she’s still in the car.’

Grace raised his binoculars. ‘She is,’ he confirmed.

As soon as he was settled, Grace looked out of his side window.

Then they both stiffened as they heard the roar of a car approaching at high speed. Headlights appeared. A boy racer shot past in what looked and sounded, in the darkness, like a clapped-out Subaru with a boombox exhaust.

Then silence again.

The rain had lessened, but a strong wind buffeted the vehicle. Grace watched the red dot on his screen, all his sadness over Bruno momentarily put to one side, into a compartment, his focus now completely on the job he was here to do. And he realized that being here, right now, in the moment – the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation, feeling the buzz – this was one of the things he loved most about his work.

A call came in from another surveillance car, further along Beachy Head Road, the detective nicknamed Smudger. ‘Nissan Micra, Bravo Delta Five One Sierra Mike Romeo, driving slowly, seems to be looking for something.’

‘Copy that,’ came Taylor’s voice.

Moments later, just as the heavens opened again, headlights appeared, and then a small car turned in. Watching through his night-vision binoculars, Grace saw it was a Nissan Micra, with the licence plate Smudger had just given. He watched it drive around the car park, before coming to a halt some distance from any of the other vehicles. He immediately called the Control Room. ‘I need a PNC check on a Nissan Micra, index Bravo Delta Five One Sierra Mike Romeo, please.’

The Control Room operator came back in seconds. ‘No trace lost or stolen. Registered owner is Ginevra Mary Stoneley of Woodbury Cottage, Chiddingly, East Sussex. Postcode—’

He cut her short. ‘Thanks, that’s good enough.’

Turning to Branson, he said, ‘Ginevra Mary Stoneley, that name mean anything?’