‘What on earth has Mr Lal done?’ asked a middle-aged woman in a flowered trouser suit that could either have been bed or daywear.

He muttered a curt ‘No comment’ as he made his way in to the flat. It had been comprehensively turned over, including the double bed in the master bedroom. The heavy metal ram was sitting on the french­polished dining table, drawers had been emptied out on the floor, clothes strewn around. No crack-fixated burglar could have shown less respect.

‘Found anything?’ Gillard asked.

‘Some gay porn,’ said one smug-looking copper, potato-faced and piggy-eyed, waving a stack of DVDs.

‘It’s not a crime,’ the detective responded, suspecting that this particular PC wished it still was, so he could personally mete out justice.

‘But this is,’ piggy eyes said, cracking open a DVD case for Bath House Stallions to reveal a plastic bag of white powder.

‘That, I grant you,’ Gillard said. ‘Your unhealthy interest in porn serves you well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Where’s Platt?’

‘Went downstairs with PC Stoddard.’

Gillard plucked the smug copper’s radio from his lapel, and pressed to talk. ‘Sergeant Platt, Gillard here. Where are you?’

‘At reception. I’ve called in another van load of uniforms, assuming we are going to search the block for the suspect.’

‘Good idea. Did you check the underground car park?’

‘No. Haven’t got the manpower, but—’

‘I’ll do it.’ Gillard signed off. First he had a hunch to check. He made his way out of the flat, back to the internal fire escape, and descended one further floor to the ninth, emerging in a serenely quiet corridor. He was looking at the door of the flat immediately below Zayan Lal’s.

It was open, and wet, dirty footprints trailed out onto the wheat-coloured carpet.

Gillard sprinted for the lift, hit the button for the basement, and emerged into the car park. It was about the same size as a floor on a typical multi-storey so it took him a minute to be sure, but the yellow Mini was not there. The acrobatic Mr Lal had managed to scramble down one further balcony, and had made good his escape.

Chapter 20

Alison Rigby saw that Gillard was almost unconscious with tiredness the moment she summoned him in.

‘It’s all right, Craig, I shan’t keep you long. Please, take a seat.’ She came around from desk and sat with him at the coffee table, seeing him almost dislocating his jaw trying to stifle a yawn. ‘I’ve ordered Jason Waddington’s release. I need enough from you that we can put together a press release for the new suspect.’

‘Okay,’ he said, and was suddenly distracted. Rigby’s secretary, Tina, had come into the room with a tray laden with mugs of milky coffee and Danish pastries. They were set down on Rigby’s desk as if to torment him.

Gillard described the raid on the flats. ‘It turns out our Mr Lal is a bit of an athlete. He was once in the Lancashire youth gymnastics team, according to Harry Roy. He jumped from Harry’s balcony to his own, something he had apparently done for a dare once before. He then went back into his own flat via the sliding door, presumably then heard the sound of great big constabulary beetle crushers outside his door and thought better of it, so then came back out onto the balcony. He then clambered down to the terrace of the flat immediately below, to which he had a key as he sometimes looked after the lady’s cat.’ He paused, his eyes sliding across to the pastries.