Wantage Leisure Park was the eighth caravan park or campsite that he’d visited that day, and he’d decided it would be the last. Twenty miles south-west of Oxford, it was the farthest north he’d searched. The site was small, two or three big fields, mostly camper vans on hook-ups, but quite a few caravans, many of them with tented extensions. Holidaymakers were hurrying back and forth, anoraks over their heads, squelching through the mud. Children scampered behind their parents, chasing each other and splashing in puddles, clearly delighted that holiday venues had now reopened. Slater never ceased to wonder at the typical Briton’s optimistic summer dress code. Shorts, T-shirts, flip-flops. Perfect for the Costa del Sol, but rarely right for the UK. The reality was washed-out barbecues, muddy toys and sodden clothing. Disappointment was guaranteed, pretty much like this job. As he rumbled around the muddy fields of the site, sitting in damp clothes, looking at the pitches and the vehicles on them, he promised himself a hot bath and a cold beer when he was done.

Then he spotted the very vehicle he was looking for.

A white 2006 VW camper with the correct registration. It was surprisingly prominent, a pitch within a hundred yards of the main gate. Slater parked across the back of the van, blocking its exit. Rain was still tipping down, so he grabbed his still-damp raincoat and a baseball cap to protect him from the worst. In his pocket he had his mobile phone already set for camera mode. He could see the distinctive light of a TV from within the sleeping compartment. It seemed he was not expected.

He crossed over to the vehicle and rapped sharply on the door.

It took half a minute for the door to slide open. He saw a woman with pale dreadlocks wearing pyjamas with rabbits on them and behind her a shaven-headed man slouched watching sport on TV.

She was not Crystal Willow, and he was not Ozzy Blanchard.

After a few minutes of conversation the story emerged. The couple recognised the picture of Crystal, who had sold them the van for cash a week ago. The buyers had driven it around the field a couple of times, were happy enough at the steep discount to the market value, and agreed to the deal, no questions asked. The only query from the couple was a simple one: had it been stolen? Slater resisted the spiteful urge to say yes. Instead he got as much detail as he could from them about what Crystal had said during their brief meeting and if she’d mentioned what her plans were. ‘Going back to Devon was all I remember,’ the woman said. ‘She’s got family down there.’