The house was like countless soldiers’ homes Tom had seen in the past, soldiers with OCD to be exact: the downstairs open plan and dominated by a huge flat-screen TV, the sofa and other furniture arranged exactly to line up with it, as if on a grid. Most squaddies were untidy, just like Tom. It was the NCOs’ griping that kept them in order. Otherwise most blocks would have looked like a gorilla had gone crazy during the night.

Even the magazine on the coffee-table, Autocar, was placed in one corner, the edges flush with those of the table. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a collection of memorabilia from Vestey’s army days gave the only indication of his previous calling: a nickel-plated SA80 bayonet with ‘Farewell and good luck’ engraved along the blade; a brass Arab coffee pot with the obligatory matching little goblets; a picture of his old rifle company. Three rows of men in their number-two service dress, medals glinting in the sun. The first row sitting cross-legged, left over right and closed fists resting on thighs, the centre row standing at ease, and the rear the same but with their legs cut off by bodies as they stood on chairs to give them height. Tom smiled to himself as he looked down at the company commander’s feet to see the obligatory yellow Labrador lying in front of him. Vestey was, no doubt, one of the young bloods standing proud, but the photo was years old, from his glory days.

He touched the edge of the frame with a gloved finger: not a speck of dust. Even the bin in the kitchen, for which Woolf made a beeline, was spotlessly clean.

‘Nothing,’ he announced, when he had taken out the bin liner, shaken it carefully and replaced it, taking care not to rearrange the single fish-finger packet and used teabag he had found within. Tom watched him with interest; his kind were easier to admire when they were quietly deploying their core skills, i.e. doing the actual physical snooping, than when sitting round boardroom tables blustering at each other.

‘I must say it’s been a while since I’ve done this,’ he said. ‘I’ve rather missed it.’ He winced as Tom moved the kettle to look behind it. ‘Just make sure –’

‘– it’s in exactly the same place. I know.’

Woolf opened the oven and the microwave while Tom took the fridge.

‘Careful when you open the freezer. That’s when you get bits of ice on the floor that thaw out into puddles and give you away.’

Tom knelt down and opened both of the two freezer drawers: nothing other than a box of Iceland burgers and a four-pack of Cornettos. No ice to drop. ‘He defrosts regularly. My mother would be impressed.’

The venture was beginning to look futile to Tom.

‘Hard to look for something when you don’t know what the fuck you’re looking for.’