He parked Trish at A&E, then made his way to the receptionist to ask about Colin Hodges. He was told to wait, so he took a seat and rang Claire Mulholland, who was covering the weekend. ‘Any progress on Zayan Lal?’ he asked, standing up and moving away from those who could overhear him.

‘None whatever. He seems to have vanished. His burner phone is switched off, and there are no CCTV sightings. We are keeping an eye on Chicken Express, but if he’s got a contact there, I’m sure he will have been tipped off to stay away.’

‘Has CSI finished with his car?’ Gillard watched from the corner of his eye as a white-coated female medic emerged from the lift and went up to the receptionist. They had a brief conversation, then both glanced at him, and then at Trish.

‘Yes, but they didn’t find anything of interest—’

The medic was now walking towards him. ‘Thanks, Claire, got to go.’ He ended the call.

The woman looked at him with a rather wan smile, and suddenly he knew this was bad news.

‘Is the lady in the wheelchair Mr Hodges’ mother?’ she asked carefully.

‘No, she’s not related to him. I’m not family, I’m a police colleague.’

Gillard had delivered enough bereavements in his life to know what he was about to be told, but the confirmation came from a different direction. The lift doors opened immediately behind them, and a wailing family burst out, marching towards the exit. Joan, Colin’s wife, plus their three teenage kids, each in floods of tears.

Colin Hodges must be dead.

Calming the bereaved is never an easy task, but Gillard knew it was his duty to catch up to Joan and offer his condolences. His unsteady progress towards her, as she hurried out towards the car park, made him realise he too was in shock. He’d worked with Colin for more than a decade, lamenting the man’s political incorrectness, but also enjoying his earthy sense of humour. As a detective he was unimaginative but he could crank out hour after hour scrutinising CCTV, doing the basics of police work, that stuff which rarely gets portrayed on TV but is essential to catching criminals.

As he hurried after Joan, he tried to formulate some kind of appropriate epitaph. He caught up with her as she was fumbling for change at the ever-hungry car park ticket machine. He helped her navigate the instructions, and only when she had the ticket clasped firmly in her fingers did she look up at him and recognise who he was. He started to blurt out his makeshift eulogy, screwing it up almost immediately. She ignored what he had to say.

‘It was meant for you, you know,’ she said accusingly.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That bitch was trying to kill you, not him. He just couldn’t help himself, if only he hadn’t been so greedy,’ she said, and burst into tears again.

Hodges’ son, aged about twelve and already a mini-me of his father, turned to Gillard and said: ‘It was in the cake. Dad told us while the ambulance was coming.’