‘How do they do it, these little scrotes … get their own harems together? I mean look at this twat … he’s five-foot-nothing, he’s a weed, probably a druggie, probably a pisshead, never done an honest job in his life.’

Lucy looked out across the darkened road to the nearest line of council houses. It was named Duke’s Row, and it was located at the west end of the Hatchwood. Each of its dwellings now showed lights, including No. 8, which sat in the very middle, but otherwise, there was no sign of life

The ‘twat’ that Harry referred to was a certain Jordan Burke, a well-known tea leaf, who Lucy had latched onto whilst carrying out a door-to-door on Epsom Close, the street behind Durkin Crescent. Initially, the metal-detector lead had felt like a long shot; but then she’d spoken to a middle-aged woman called Eileen Winterbottom, who said that sometime around mid-afternoon the previous Sunday, she’d got curious about a workman she’d spotted coming down one of her neighbour’s drives. He’d been youngish – in his early twenties, with greasy red hair and walking with a limp. His age was what had first alerted her, because even though he was wearing overalls and carrying tools on a utility belt, she’d thought he’d seemed young. On top of that, it was a Sunday, and how often were workmen busy at weekends? However, she’d enquired later on with the neighbours in question, and though they hadn’t been having any repairs done, there’d been no break-in and nothing had been stolen. Happy with that, Mrs Winterbottom had taken it no further.

Of course, the helpful resident had not realised that the house in question also happened to back onto a bungalow in the next street, said bungalow belonging to one Reg Murgatroyd; or, that on the day in question, Sunday October 22, mid-afternoon, when the old man made one of his ‘regular as clockwork’ trips to the Railway Club, his bungalow was burgled. When Lucy produced her iPad, and called up a few images of basic tools, Mrs Winterbottom was able to identify several as having been attached to the young workman’s utility belt. These included a brace and bit, which no good burglar should ever be without. But more importantly still, he was wearing headphones around his neck, while over one shoulder he also carried an item the lady did not recognise until Lucy showed her a specific picture of it; with its long metal stem, touchpad controls, comfy armrest, and flat search-coil at one end, it was clearly a metal detector.

After that, a quick search on the database for an active burglar, aged around twenty, with red hair and a pronounced limp, had brought Jordan Burke to their attention.