Lucy placed Payne’s own hand on the compress, telling her to hold it in place, and then manoeuvred herself around, thinking to hook the girl under the armpits and lift her from behind. ‘What the hell made you come inside on your own, Tessa? You were three years in uniform, you ought to have known better.’

‘Didn’t … want to.’

Lucy glanced down at her again, puzzled.

‘But I heard … heard …’

Somewhere nearby, in one of the connecting rooms in this dismal basement, a child started crying. A very young child.

Lucy spun around, startled.

‘A baby …’ she breathed. Then, louder, ‘Dear God, have they grabbed a baby?’

She straightened up, still scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. It wasn’t especially muffled, and in fact was loud enough for the child, which sounded distressed to the point of hysteria, to be very close by.

She now completely understood why Payne had disregarded her own safety and gone running into the old building alone – because if there was one thing no police officer could ever ignore, it was a child that might be in danger.

Meanwhile, the mite was still crying, loudly, frantically. It was a terrible sound. Even in a public place, like a supermarket or park, you might’ve felt motivated to go and see what the problem was.

‘Just stay here,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘I’ve got to check this out.’

Payne muttered something about hardly being in a position to move, while Lucy edged away from her with torch in hand, advancing along the corridor.

Just ahead, the insulated cable from the garage divided into two, one part snaking through a side doorway from which the red light appeared to shine, the other leading off into darkness, from which direction she heard the low rumble of what sounded like a generator.

So much for Santa Magdalena being hooked to the mains, Lucy thought, taking the route that led to the light. It was another short corridor leading to yet another half-open, red-lit doorway. She went forward again and opened the door, the groan of its aged hinges drowned by the bawling of the child. The red light, now much stronger, showed her a traditional old-fashioned cellar divided into various sections by vaulted brick arches, and filled with age-old rubbish: stacks of rickety, worm-eaten furniture swathed in cobwebs, boxes brimming with bric-a-brac so furred with dust that it was impossible to identify.