I knocked on it. Leant through the half-open hatch and spoke to the lady who was sitting behind the glass. ‘I’m DI Rahman. I’m here to see Michael Reynolds.’

‘He won’t be a moment,’ she said, and pointed at a row of plastic chairs.

When Michael Reynolds arrived, he had a kind face. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a Pink Floyd logo on the front and 1980 tour dates on the back. A thin ponytail of grey hair lay at the nape of his neck. ‘Hello,’ he said, and shook my hand. ‘You wanted to talk about Patrick Ryan? Let’s see if the kitchen’s free. Bit hard to find anywhere private in this place.’

‘Lead the way,’ I said, and followed him along the corridor.

The staff kitchen was the size of a toilet and consisted of a stainless-steel sink, a worktop with a cupboard above it and a wall-mounted catering urn.

I showed him the mug-shot of Ryan.

‘That’s him. Came here a lot. Nice fella. I heard the news report. Awful.’

‘We think that this man may have been involved in his death.’ This time I showed him Kenny Hayes. ‘Have you ever seen him? The scar on his neck is distinctive.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘He’s got a younger brother. This is him.’ I got out John’s photograph. ‘They work together.’

He looked blank.

‘Could you circulate these images amongst all your staff and volunteers, and to any other services they may have used? You never know. They may have been here once when you weren’t in.’

‘Sure. I should have a bit of time after we’ve done tea. I can start sending them round some of the other facilities in London.’ He was gazing at Patrick’s face. ‘I can’t believe it. He was enjoying his job when I last saw him, and was over the moon to be off the white stuff.’

I nodded. ‘I can imagine. Did he . . . ?’ I stopped. ‘Excuse me. I need to take this call.’ My heart leaped up a gear. I stepped back into the corridor, my stomach doing somersaults. This was the news we’d been waiting for. We’d found Abbie Turner at last. ‘Alexej?’

But they hadn’t found Abbie alive.

They’d found a body.

Maya, 7 p.m.

Maya, 7 p.m.

At Duckett House, the crime scene cordons were already in place.

‘Scumbags. I told you. The flash mob at St Katherine’s Dock was a distraction.’ Dan sent a can flying with his foot.

‘Looks like it.’ We were round the other side of the estate to where we’d been previously.

‘This shithole’s a disgrace.’

‘Let’s get this over with.’ My stomach was a ball of dread.

We reported to the scene guard.