There was no sighting of Ozzy, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He might have been waiting somewhere for the deal to be done. Slater guessed that Crystal and Ozzy had traded down to a car and a tent. They had been smart enough not to directly swap the camper van for a car, but had broken the trail by taking their cash elsewhere. If they were being this smart, then he guessed they wouldn’t be using cash machines or credit cards either. The last info he’d had from Carl Hoskins was many days’ old now, but indicated they weren’t. Everything now depended on how much ready money the couple could lay their hands on. Ultimately, it would need to be a lot to avoid laying a trail. Hence raising cash from the camper van.

Slater’s client was expecting results. But he was back to square one. He’d have to think of something, or this was going to be embarrassing. The only plus point in the whole sorry saga was that the couple in the camper van had not yet been approached by the police. Thames Valley plods were doing an even worse job tracking this lot than he was.

That evening Ray Slater booked in at the Anvil Arms and took his hot bath there before coming down to the bar, where he sat chatting to Vicky Willow. Over the last couple of weeks the private detective had become a regular at the pub. He’d already stayed a couple of nights in their tired and dingy B&B rooms on the quiet, before it was allowed. The room was in need of redecoration but otherwise okay, and there was plenty of scaldingly hot water. The food was terrible, the service slow and at breakfast the lounge was a cross between a crèche and a war zone. Lego bricks and plastic soldiers were underfoot, there were discarded baby socks on the seats and numerous washed but still-stained baby bibs graced the radiators. Callum, the boisterous older child, would burst in, making the noise of explosions as he continued a tabletop siege that seemed a permanent fixture.