There was nowhere quite like Hatchwood Green for reminding you that most policework took place a long way from the pseudo-glamorous world of stake-outs, fast cars and high-end villainy that the Robbery Squad occupied.

It was the archetypical sink estate, which under the steady drizzle of a dull, grey October day looked even more depressing than usual.

Lucy hated the place, partly because she had to visit it so regularly, but also because it was architecturally hideous, not just comprising run-down, past-its-sell-by-date housing stock, but also faceless tower blocks and rows of dingy deck-access flats. If all that wasn’t bad enough, the council’s original policy of gathering together on the Hatchwood what looked like every antisocial element they could find – problem families, drunks, addicts and other known criminals – in effect turning this already declining neighbourhood into a human dustbin, had been sheer folly, as it had created a ghetto atmosphere where resentment festered.

Harry parked his BMW on Edward Terrace, in the very middle of the estate, and then sat and fiddled with his phone, playing Candy Crush Saga while Lucy leafed through the crime reports he’d put together for her as rain dotted the windows.

‘Most of these APs are quite elderly,’ she observed.

Harry grunted. ‘That’s hardly unusual, is it?’

‘Wouldn’t be unusual if we were talking robberies with the householders assaulted or told to get out of the way … but these are burglaries, break-ins when they’re not at home. That’s obviously these perps’ thing. But OAPs, because they’re not employed, tend not to keep regular hours.’ She pondered. ‘Whoever these lads are, they obviously know the estate pretty well, keep an eye on the comings and goings.’

Harry shrugged as though once again this was hardly a revelation. ‘I’m perfectly prepared to believe it’s local industry. Look at the stuff being taken. It’s hardly high-end.’

Lucy had to admit that whoever the burglars were, they weren’t getting away with life-changing hauls. In most cases, it was cash and jewellery, but it rarely amounted to much. The most recent break caught her eye. It had occurred on October 22 at 19, Durkin Crescent, the bungalow of a nonagenarian war veteran widower called Reg Murgatroyd, whom she knew personally. In that case, the loss comprised two rings, his late wife’s wedding and engagement rings. Lucy doubted it would earn the thief much on the black market, but it could be a crippling blow to the old man.

‘Cynical opportunism,’ she said. ‘These breaks aren’t planned in advance. That means they … or he know the area well – because he knows where the OAPs live, and he patrols it regularly looking for his chance. But how can a gang of lads, or even one lad alone, do that without someone getting suspicious and reporting them?’

Harry grunted again.