Minutes later, he was being driven at high speed along pitch-black twisting lanes towards the Wallasea Island wetlands, the headlights of the car carving out a narrow path between high verges. Carrington palmed a couple of dry aspirin into his mouth and wound down the window to blast his face with cold air, trying to sober up. He gripped the door handle tightly to stay upright as the vehicle flew around bends.

The car trundled into woods, the headlights jumping, suspension juddering on rough ground, making the contents of his stomach slop and lurch and churn. Acid surged in his throat to scorch the back of his mouth. And when they finally came to a stop, he stumbled gratefully from the car into the chill night.

Following his CID detectives through the trees beneath a silvery moon as wide as a dinner plate, Peter Carrington hoped the assembled officers wouldn’t be able to see how ill he felt. He saw lights blazing from an old farmhouse.

‘The kids said they ran into these woods and Swann never followed them,’ one of his team told him. ‘We think he’s still inside.’

‘Then let’s go pay him a visit.’

‘But one of the girls still hasn’t been located,’ said a voice, and Carrington turned to see a young female officer. She was barely even a woman, to his mind; she looked like she should still be at school.

‘Did all the children get out or not?’ he asked his men.

‘According to the kids at the station, they all escaped and ran together into these woods, but Becky Haskell is unaccounted for.’

‘So they got separated.’ Carrington nodded into the darkness. ‘Hardly surprising, it’s as black as the ace of spades. The girl is probably still wandering around somewhere.’

‘But, sir,’ the uniform insisted. ‘The children are in shock, their recollections of what happened are confused, what if they’re mistaken?’

He considered the girl. ‘How long have you been on the force, dear?’

The girl swallowed. ‘A week, sir.’

A probationary PC, a bloody sprog! Carrington, who had been a copper since before this little girl was even born, felt his headache crank up a notch. This investigation was going to come back and bite him on the arse, he felt it in his water, and he wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated by some upstart who had been on the force for all of two seconds.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Chancellor, sir.’ She swallowed. ‘WPC Chancellor.’

‘I like your attitude, Dawson, very admirable.’ Carrington appraised her; she was a pretty girl, he’d give her that much. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll climb the ladder soon enough, you being a female and the world being what it is these days, and that right now you really want to help.’

‘Absolutely, sir,’ said the girl.