‘He said he lived near here,’ he said, recalling the man’s words before they’d sent him on his way that day.

They drove on for another half mile, before turning in through a set of open gates. They were in the driveway of a large, white-walled house, the gardens around it beautifully maintained.

Ray was still struggling to make the link as to how it could be Charlie Lane, and how Laura, who’d never met him, had figured it out, even as the tires skidded to a halt on the gravel.

He jumped from the car at the same time as Willie, Tom and Linda McCarn emerged from the vehicle in front.

‘No, you don’t,’ the inspector said to Linda. ‘Go close those gates and get in the car, driver’s side. If he comes out of that house running, feel free to give him a little tap with the bonnet. Ray and Bridget, you take the back, we’ll go in the front.’

The two detectives jogged around the side of the house, just as they heard the sound of the wooden front door splintering. Ray hoped Tom was right, or there was going to be trouble over that unorthodox entry. Just as that thought was running through his head, he saw broken glass glittering in the late afternoon sun, an incongruous mess on the otherwise pristine stone path.

‘Ray!’ Bridget grabbed his arm, and they both froze. They approached the debris with caution. Ray took a glove from his pocket and bent down to pick up the smashed smart phone. He saw the white line of Tipp-Ex painted on the back and felt his knees go weak.

‘That’s hers,’ Bridget said, her voice faint. ‘She put the Tipp-ex on it because we’ve the same phone and keep mixing them up at home.’

Ray stood, feeling like he was going to vomit. This couldn’t be happening. He clutched the windowsill and pulled himself to a standing position.

‘Oh, my God.’ Bridget clasped a hand over her mouth and Ray followed her gaze. The white windowsill and wall was sprayed with blood. They hadn’t seen it immediately because of the glare of the sun.

Feeling like his heart was beating out of his chest, Ray broke into a run, racing around to the back of the house. He found the rear entrance and was about to throw himself at the door when it opened.

Willie was standing there, his face white as a sheet.

‘What is it?’ Ray cried, his voice hoarse. He pushed past Willie. They were standing in a sitting room, a large fireplace to one side, a three-piece leather suite and coffee table gracing the polished floorboards. A rug had been pulled up in the middle of the room and the trapdoor beneath flung open.

Tom’s head popped up.

‘She’s not down here,’ he said. ‘The room was like this when we came through.’