It had been less than five minutes.

‘How long do you think?’

Sarah turned to face the questioner. Nathan Benson. One of the network’s new breed of cameramen. Technological whizz-kids without a lick of experience or a jot of common sense. Sarah missed the old guard. One in particular. She felt the familiar pang of sadness that hit her whenever she thought of Dan Maguire. He had been killed in an explosion less than two years ago. Just before Sarah had started running for her life. Just as she had met Michael.

‘How long for what?’ she asked, shaking off the distracting thought.

‘How long will we be here? There’s nothing happening.’

‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ Sarah replied. Advice she had been given years ago, by a cameraman Benson could never hope to be. ‘We’ll wait until they’re ready to tell us something.’

Benson nodded. Sarah’s tone was clear: no follow-up questions were welcome. Instead he concentrated on his state-of-the-art equipment. Digital adjustments that would mean nothing to anyone outside of his industry.

Sarah watched for a few seconds, bemused, but Benson’s camera could only hold her attention for so long. Quickly bored by his tinkering, she walked back towards their van. It was parked on the nearest kerb. Five others – identical but for the network logos – were parked close by.

Sarah passed them all. Across the street. Far enough now, she turned and looked back at the scene she had left behind.

The house itself was impressive. Big, even for the location. Sarah would expect perhaps six bedrooms, none of them small. The driveway was visible from the road, behind automated iron gates. A large space, block-paved across. An intricate jigsaw that had no doubt taken patience and back-pain to complete. Everything about the property said ‘Family Home’.

Sarah knew that it was no such thing. Not any more.

Wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow, Sarah looked around. The neighbouring houses seemed quiet. Not a single face at a single window. Not that Sarah expected anything else. When Scotland Yard’s Major Investigation Team come to a community like this, no one’s head comes above the parapet. Friends become acquaintances, acquaintances become strangers. With MIT around, the best neighbours would rather be left alone.

The heat was rising. Sarah could feel it. She crossed the street once again, this time heading straight for a small huddle of three reporters, one man and two women. From the visible effects of the heat, all three had been here a while.

‘Miss Truman.’ The male reporter greeted her. He was perhaps the same age as Sarah. Certainly not yet thirty. But like the others, he was on a much lower rung of the career ladder. ‘We don’t usually see you at this sort of thing.’

‘What can I say? I thought I’d catch some sun.’ Sarah smiled as she spoke. Hoped friendliness would disguise the fact that she knew none of their names. ‘Has anyone heard anything from inside?’