She checked the phone again; there were no missed calls. But it probably wouldn’t do any harm to call him, herself. If he was still in conflab at some other venue, the worst that would happen is that he’d ignore her and she’d be diverted to voicemail.

She was about to tap in his number, when what sounded like a clatter of woodwork echoed up the derelict street.

Lucy spun around. At first, she saw nothing different from before, but she walked a few yards along the pavement on the right-hand side, and came in sight of a house on the left where, instead of a front door, there was a visible opening.

This surprised her for two reasons.

Firstly, because most of the houses here were closed up, their front doors and windows either covered with plywood boards or metal, or simply locked and the keys taken away.

Secondly, because she could have sworn that there hadn’t been an opening there before.

So, had the door opened just now?

Was it possible that Tucker and his CI had gone into one of the houses to confer? Maybe there was something in there that the CI wanted to bring to Tucker’s attention.

Phone in hand, some sixth sense preventing her from pocketing it, Lucy walked down the road, taking a diagonal course as she crossed slowly and warily towards the left-hand side.

Danny didn’t say anything about meeting indoors.

She stopped halfway across, almost on level with the house in question. It was indeed an opening; what looked like a plywood hoarding had been levered away, leaving an empty door frame behind it. She supposed it was possible that the wood had simply fallen off through age; the old frame was likely to be rotted through. Perhaps that was the sound she’d heard.

One thing she knew, she wasn’t going any closer without making a call first. She raised the mobile to look for Tucker’s number; it distracted her for no more than a couple of milliseconds – though that was enough time for a figure to emerge.

The movement drew Lucy’s attention up from the phone’s facia.

Whoever it was, he was only slightly taller than her own five-eight, and his compact shape was possibly exaggerated by his bulky leather jacket. But there was no doubting the threat he posed. In fact, it was a toss-up which was more terrifying: the blood-red woollen ski mask, or the sub-machine gun with shoulder strap, which he raised to chest-height as he aimed it at her.

It was one of those flesh-freezing moments that police officers occasionally encounter.