Lance unlocked his car door and began to climb out, wondering if he’d finally lost the plot. Then there’d been the scene at the door. The boy had stood, scowling, demanding either an answer or an explanation, as if requesting the magic password. Open sesame. It had worked, only the man had been more interested in the sirens that had come and gone just as the boy had allowed him in. The smile, that big, broad smile, had seemed almost fixed in place. No, not almost. Utterly fixed, like someone auditioning for a game show. Look at me, the smile had said. Gosh, I’m a happy, friendly guy.

Lance took his mobile from his pocket and dialled Callanach’s number. He was greeted by an invitation to leave a voicemail. He tried again. Still no answer. By now, he was at the door to the flats. He looked up the road. The area, of course, was deserted. No one was coming to open up who he could charm in his older-guy kind of way to let him in.

He should call Ava Turner instead, he thought. Only to say what? This guy walking towards Janet Vargas’ flat had been carrying shopping that didn’t match Lance’s experience of parenting. And he had a creepy smile, too – mustn’t forget that crucial bit of evidence. It was ridiculous and yet it felt as real as the bag of crisps he hadn’t realised he was still clutching in his hands. He looked down into the sack of salt-and-vinegar flavoured saturated fat and knew he had to do something. Anything.

He phoned MIT, grateful the number was still in his phone from his previous work with Callanach.

‘Hi, I need to speak with DCI Turner as a matter of urgency, please,’ he said.

‘Sorry, DCI Turner’s out at the moment. We’re expecting her back later tonight. Can I take a message?’

Lance racked his brains for other names.

‘Um, wait, Max Tripp. Is he there?’ he tried.

‘No, also out. I’m afraid the department’s a bit low on personnel right now. If it’s an emergency, I can put you through to the switchboard to get police units to you?’

He thought about that. There was no emergency. Just a suspicion. And a block of flats with a possibly dodgy man inside, who could have a million different reasons for carrying a small pack of nappies and chocolate cereal. Perhaps his wife was pregnant and craving chocolate goodies, and they wanted the smallest pack of nappies possible for practising changing techniques. Lance felt like an idiot.

‘No worries,’ he said. ‘If you could just leave a message for DCI Turner that I called. The name’s Lance Proudfoot. She knows who I am.’

‘Of course, sir,’ the woman on the other end of the line said. ‘I’ll let her know.’