‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Gillard tried his damnedest to keep every trace of sarcasm from that response.

‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Craig. I’m counting on you. I’m allocating Claire Mulholland to help you.’

The line went dead.

Gillard had originally entertained hopes of being able to make it for the funeral reception at the Red Lion, Colin Hodges’ local. His wife Joan would have ordered a great spread, and he had been looking forward to munching his way through a stack of sandwiches. The magnitude and urgency of the case now dumped upon him made that impossible. He texted Joan his apologies.

Before driving back to Surrey police headquarters in Guildford he emailed Research Intelligence Officer DC Rob Townsend with the missing woman’s mobile number and told him to get cell tower traces done in time for an incident room meeting in Mount Browne at four o’clock. Three hours should be enough. He also put in an urgent email request to London’s Met Police to get some basic interviews undertaken at the Royal Academy of Music in South Kensington with the missing woman’s teachers, friends and fellow students. He wanted her medical records, and any electronic devices at her student digs too. Years of experience led him to copy in the chief constable, to ensure that his resource-grabbing request was treated with the appropriate respect, rather than the virtual V sign that a nobody like him would normally get from the capital’s police service.

With the ball now rolling, Gillard spent the journey back thinking about the student’s movements. She and her colleagues had taken a last-minute booking for their string quartet at a village in Surrey on Sunday, and had gone their separate ways afterwards. No one had seen her since that time, but there were two text messages at least as late as Tuesday afternoon. One to Karen Ellsworth, confirming that she would be at the concert in London and, according to Karen, another several hours later to another member of the quartet, saying she was fine, and would be there on time.

The hands-free phone disturbed his thoughts as he was on the A3. It was the control room patching through a call from an Adrian Singer. Perhaps the last person to see Beatrice Ulbricht.

‘Hello Mr Singer.’

‘I’m returning your call, detective chief inspector. I had one earlier from PC Lynne Fairbanks. I’m really worried to hear about Beatrice. It’s quite unlike her.’

‘Yes, that’s what everybody says. I’d like to get you in to make a detailed statement, but perhaps I can just ask you a couple of questions.’

‘Of course.’

‘I understand that you had arranged to pick up Ms Ulbricht from West Clandon Village Hall after the concert.’

‘I did yes. I brought her back to my place in Gomshall for dinner and after that I dropped her at the bus stop.’

‘So she was heading back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘You went to fetch her from the station, but you only dropped her back at the local bus stop. That’s four or five miles away from the station.’