Lucy’s Suzuki Jimny was her own car but, since she’d been cleared to drive it on police duty, she’d had blue flashers incorporated into her standard external light system, and a discreet siren fitted. She hit the button for both, giving them a fleeting whirl. The guy with the tassels jumped and spun to look at her. It was definitely the same young bloke she’d seen last Saturday night, the one with the shark tattoo on his neck and the rampant acne, the little bastard who’d been selling drugs to the homeless occupants of Penrose Mill.

‘Hold up, mate,’ she shouted. ‘I need to speak to you.’

As expected, he darted away, dashing along the pavement in long, lanky strides, the heels of his cowboy boots clopping like hooves.

Lucy accelerated slowly as she pursued, glancing into her rear-view mirror in case he suddenly turned around and she needed to make a U-turn. After a few dozen yards, he veered left, vaulted a chain-link fence and ran over a grassy forecourt towards the first of several blocks of medium-rise flats, vanishing around the first corner. Lucy didn’t activate the lights and siren again but took the first left she came to, which was about fifty yards further on, and found herself on a slip-road leading into the very heart of the project.

This was the King’s Hill estate. It wasn’t a particularly bad area, most of the units having been refurbished and privately sold, so she didn’t anticipate trouble. The apartment blocks had been constructed in two parallel lines and stood facing each other across a succession of interconnected car parks. There was nobody in sight, save for a couple of builders just ahead of her on the left, who sipped tea as they leaned on the barrier of a balcony.

Then the idiot came into view again, his loping, lanky figure emerging from a ground-floor passage and cutting diagonally across the car park in front of her. He wasn’t moving quickly – in a leather jacket, tight jeans and heeled boots, he was hardly dressed for sprinting – and she caught up to him without needing to speed. He diverted left as she swerved the Jimny around and in front, hit the brake and jumped out.

‘Hey!’ Lucy shouted, racing after him. ‘Just wait up! You’re not in trouble …’

He ignored her, making for the foot of a staircase, but he hadn’t even got to it when a burly, dusty figure came heavily down. It was one of the two builders, a tall but overweight guy, clad in the usual dirty jeans and ragged jumper, steel toecaps glinting through the rotted ends of his wizened leather boots. The runner slowed to a halt as the builder stood there immovably, arms folded across his barrel chest, a stern look on his bristling face.

‘Where you going, lad?’ the builder demanded.