Slater was really tempting fate here. But it was no good tracking Vicky, who was tied by her children and her various jobs to Rissington Common. He needed a device in the hands of Crystal Willow, so that he could be led right to her. It wasn’t such an outlandish thought. Slater had done his homework. He knew Crystal’s date of birth, and that she would celebrate her forty-fifth birthday on Friday. Like anyone on the run, she would always need an extra phone.

Vicky held up the two phones, and inspected them minutely. She was smart and she was cautious, two traits he definitely approved of. But he was devious and clever. As he watched her, he felt like he was visiting Snow White with a poisoned apple.

‘Okay,’ she said softly, and pulled a surprisingly large wad of cash from the back of her jeans.

Snared.

After another night in the cells Cleaver emerged on Tuesday morning looking haggard and angry, his blue eyes intense as Gillard and Kirsty Mockett sat opposite him. The detective ran through the formalities for the tape, while the duty solicitor settled himself down and shuffled through his papers. The duty sergeant had told Gillard that their prisoner had been praying, intermittently but loudly, throughout the night.

‘Can you not release me while you continue your enquiries?’ Cleaver asked.

‘We can hold you for four days under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. We don’t intend to infringe on your liberty more than we have to, but we have made significant forensic discoveries in your home.’

Cleaver’s eyes widened.

At this point Kirsty Mockett showed Cleaver a clear plastic evidence bag with a thick paperback inside. ‘Is this yours?’

Cleaver peered closer, then nodded.

‘For the tape, the detainee acknowledged owning a copy of the Collins Guide to Theology,’ she said. The next evidence bag she showed him contained a hardback about Christian evangelism.

‘Why are you going through my bookshelves? What is the point of this?’ Cleaver asked, his blue eyes focused on Kirsty. She avoided his gaze.

‘Perhaps you’d just answer the question, reverend,’ Gillard said.

‘Yes, it’s mine. I don’t think I have the receipt any longer, if you think I stole it.’ He leaned back, crossed his arms and rolled his eyes at the solicitor.

Kirsty went through three more books which had been drawn almost at random from bookshelves in the crime scene bedroom. One of them he said he didn’t recognise. ‘I own a lot of books,’ he said.

The final book was the bridges of London hardback. ‘That’s not mine. It was already in the house when I moved in,’ Cleaver said.