After another few minutes of instruction and suggestions, Dobbs let him go. Gillard blew a sigh as he walked down the corridor. He had preferred the days when Dobbs was off sick, and he had reported directly to Alison Rigby. The chief constable was smart, decisive and generally supportive of her officers. With Dobbs, Gillard felt that he was being watched until he made a mistake. Stella Anderson’s involvement would simply be another opportunity to second-guess his work. Still, this connection could work both ways. He didn’t routinely have access to the Hampshire crime database, and it would be useful to speak to her.

He picked up the phone and rang her. The call went to voicemail, so he dropped in the name of Ozzy Blanchard. ‘I need to know everything you’ve got on him, ma’am.’

Gillard headed home early, knowing that DI Mulholland was on evening duty. Claire was a very safe pair of hands, one of Gillard’s closest colleagues and his best friend in the force. He knew that she could handle anything that emerged from the Rissington Man case.

Before lockdown began, Gillard had tried to match up with Sam’s work schedule once a week so they could both go to the swimming pool at the same time. Now, with gyms and swimming pools closed, they missed that shared exercise, but had switched to a new one. He had for years been a regular cyclist, but since the lockdown in March they had ridden together, Sam using the new lightweight racer that Gillard had bought her for Christmas. Tonight was a perfect opportunity to make use of the light summer evenings to notch up some longer distances. She was very nearly as fit as he was, though she still lacked confidence in jousting for space on the busy Home Counties roads. They stopped halfway round their route in a layby to drink from their water bottles, but by the time they got back home in the failing light, they both needed more.

‘I’m so thirsty,’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, while Gillard opened the garage. He smiled. She looked as good as she had ever done, her trim Lycra-clad figure still showing traces of tan from the holiday they had enjoyed just after Christmas. Upstairs, they jumped into the shower cubicle together. Sam washed her hair, and with fleeting touches, he helped her rinse suds from the long dark tresses.

‘That feels nice,’ she said, leaning backwards into him, her hot sudsy head against his shoulder, her firm buttocks against his groin. After a few minutes, the words ceased, and they exchanged hot wet kisses. Slick, slippery movements and wordless murmurs took over, and became a gentle rhythmic symphony under the steaming nozzle. It was gentle, unhurried and delightful. When it was over, Sam’s eyes popped open, a huge grin on her face. ‘Oh Craig, I got there.’