‘Well, if your operational imperatives satisfy your chief constable, I will do my best at this end to secure a conviction,’ Wakefield said. ‘I can do no better than that.’

Gillard turned to Alison Rigby, who said: ‘We’ll go ahead, but please, Craig be very careful.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Ray Slater, oldest of three and the only boy, had grown up in a rough area of Bermondsey, south London. He was streetwise and wily rather than tough and more practical than academic. He joined the Royal Marines at eighteen, just before the Falklands War. He was in 3 Commando Brigade, expecting to head off to Norway for training when news came in of the Argentine invasion in April 1982. He used to brag to Hoskins about having ‘killed Argies with my bare hands’, but nobody quite believed him. His obvious skills were of the opportunistic fixer variety, securing scarce supplies, and driving or repairing Land Rovers. The family were surprised that he left the Marines within two years and joined the Metropolitan Police, where he became a dog handler. He always seemed to have a knack of turning up with various goods that he had secured through the police auction of stolen property. He always had a nose for an advantage.

Listening to this, Gillard wondered if Slater had already been bent when he was in the Met.

Precautions were essential. The fact that Ray Slater was being hunted at all was redacted from the official evidence file. Gillard felt there was a danger the private detective may have other contacts within the force able to tip him off. A surveillance unit had been dispatched to Slater’s office, but so far there was no activity. Both of Slater’s cars were run through ANPR, but hadn’t triggered any cameras since the day that Blanchard’s body was found.

Once the plan was finalised, Gillard sat with Carl Hoskins while he rang Slater’s mobile. He called from the same office number Slater had contacted him on. The message kicked in, so Hoskins said: ‘Ray, give us a call. I’ve got some useful intelligence.’

There was no call back, and after half an hour Gillard went off to pursue other duties. Rob Townsend, already weighed down with work, was asked as a priority to put a cell-site trace on the mobile that Hoskins had called. If Slater turned on the phone to pick up the message, they would know where he was. A call back came after an hour, but from an unknown number, and it was to Hoskins’ personal mobile, not the office direct line.

‘It’s me,’ Slater said. ‘What have you got?’

‘I can’t talk here,’ Hoskins said. ‘Let me meet you somewhere.’

‘You must think I was born yesterday, son.’

‘They’re not on to you, yet, but I am. You’ve committed murder, but I can make it go away.’

‘Bullshit.’