He pulled into the kerb and googled the old family address. He zoomed out, located the school and ran a finger along the route they’d taken. He double-checked. Zoomed in and out again. This wasn’t the way home, not exactly. They should have carried on at the junction, not gone left. It was one street out of their way. And it was a long street. On a blustery day? Why make the trip longer? He looked harder. And there it was: a patch of green on the map. Thomas and his nanny had been going to the park. He came to a stop on the outer perimeter. There was a cold wind, just as there had been ten years ago. But Thomas had loved the ice cream here, whatever the weather. That’s what she’d said. Tough little bugger.

From his car he could see the old café, just a wooden shack really, but a nicely maintained one, with large doors that opened outwards, a handful of small tables and a serving counter within. And there she was. The colour was unmistakable. She was still in the red jacket.

He got out and began to walk towards her, past a duck pond, its edges strewn with bird shit, massive splodges of the stuff. Was it goose shit that stank bad? Or chicken? He couldn’t remember. After the kind of night he’d had, he couldn’t even be bothered to avoid stepping in the stuff. Or perhaps it was deliberate. Another metaphor? He wasn’t thinking straight. He was walking in shit.

She was at a table against the wall at the back. There wasn’t much light. But it was her, in the jacket she’d stolen. The dark hair, the outline of her face, taut and angular, not a scrap of fat on her.

A thought. He retraced his steps, sat on a bench so that he was partially concealed behind a large holly bush, and phoned her. Why would she answer now?

‘Turn the bloody thing on!’

He let it click to voicemail.

Then he waited, watching a fragmented version of her through the spiky leaves as she sat there, hardly moving. Didn’t look like she was in a rush.

After a while he phoned for local back-up. A patrol car arrived within minutes. He flagged it down a little way along the road, told them to stay close but out of sight of the café.

Then it was time.

‘Chris?’

She looked up.

Nothing.

‘You knew I’d find you here, didn’t you?’

‘You’re the detective!’

Was it defiance? Not really. She sounded like a child. He wanted to hold her. It was ridiculous, he knew.

‘This way’s best.’

Still she said nothing. Her shoulders dropped fractionally, but otherwise she was motionless.

He took a seat.

‘Suspect was waiting in a place known to the investigating officer.’

She smiled. ‘Gets me a brownie point, does it?’