‘My eyes feel like they had sand poured in them,’ Hoskins said, as he sat down with his plate of sausages, bacon, black pudding, mushrooms, hash browns, baked beans and fried tomatoes. Hodges, already tucking into his breakfast, had gone for the double sausage and double bacon, and two extra slices of white toast.

‘Yeah, I feel like I spend my life just looking at screens.’

‘Funny how he just disappeared on us,’ Hoskins said.

They looked up as DCI Gillard walked in and made his way to the counter to order. Mrs Iris announced his order to the kitchen in her beautiful Caribbean lilt: ‘Poached egg and milky coffee for Mr Gillard.’

‘Seems like he’s living here now,’ Hodges said, inclining his head towards their boss.

‘Yeah, but at least he doesn’t look so knackered as yesterday,’ Hodges said. ‘His eyes were like piss holes in the snow.’

Hoskins’ snigger was cut short as Gillard sat down to join them.

‘On a health kick, sir?’ Hodges asked, nodding at the tray, which contained only a yoghurt and a kiwi fruit.

‘I’ve got a poached egg on order,’ he replied, nodding at the counter. ‘So, gentlemen, I understand that our fugitive wandered through the town centre like he owned it, went into Chicken Express, and never re-emerged.’

‘That’s right. He almost certainly went out the back way. When we get back I can show you the map on my screen,’ Hoskins said. ‘Leads to a residential street with parking.’

Gillard took a spoonful of yoghurt. ‘He made a quick phone call about that time, and then he turned his phone off. Since then it’s been a blank.’

‘He’s probably been watching Hunted,’ Hodges said. The detectives were great aficionados of the TV game show, in which contestants tried to escape Britain’s forces of law and order for several weeks for the chance of a big cash prize. Nothing had done more to bring to the public’s attention the ubiquity of Britain’s CCTV network and the power of the state to track mobile phones, cars and card transactions. The show did its fair share of cutting corners in the investigative process, which always brought jeers of derision from watching cops, who in reality were never able to so rapidly access and track data as the show’s investigators seemed to.

Gillard told them about the phone trace. ‘Rob has been doing a great job, embedded with the techies.’

‘Not as deeply embedded as he is in that Kirsty Mockett,’ Hodges murmured, chewing a mouthful of black pudding.

‘Are they an item?’ Gillard asked.

Hoskins nodded. ‘Saw her groping him under the table, just yesterday. Lucky bastard.’

‘He come to work on Wednesday with a grin so wide you could put Crossrail through it,’ Hodges said.

‘Gentleman, I suggest you save your surveillance skills for outside this building,’ Gillard said tartly. Iris brought over his egg and coffee, but before he could start it, he saw a message on his phone.

‘Oh heck. Alison Rigby wants to see me. Catch you later.’ He stood up to leave, and then quickly turned back to the table. ‘If you see DI Mulholland, tell her we’ve got an incident room meeting at noon.’