It was just before seven a.m. when Baz Mulholland took the call. Claire was in the shower, and emerged just wearing a towel. ‘Vince Babbage at Staines,’ he said as he handed her the cordless phone.

The duty sergeant at Staines police station came quickly to the point. ‘Sorry to disturb, ma’am. Control room picked up a 999 call. Two witnesses reported a body found in the Molesey Reservoirs Nature Reserve, and you’re the closest senior detective. I know you’re not on duty for another hour in theory, but CSI is already there and I thought…’

‘That’s no problem at all, Vince.’ She put the phone on speaker, walked into her bedroom, tossed the phone onto the bed, dropped the towel onto the floor and began to dress rapidly. ‘Do we know anything about it?’

‘Well, the cyclist who first spotted it says it’s definitely Neville Rollason.’

‘I’ll take that with a pinch of salt,’ she said, as she buttoned up her blouse. ‘Almost nobody knows what he looks like these days. I certainly don’t.’ She slid on a pair of jeans rather than work slacks, thinking of mud, blood and mess at a nature reserve.

‘That was my feeling, ma’am. Wishful thinking maybe. Still, the witness was very distressed and the control room operator didn’t feel it was a hoax.’

‘Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Do me a favour. Email DCI Craig Gillard, and DI Graham Morgan in Special Branch. If there is even a chance it’s Rollason, they’ll need to know.’

‘Righto, ma’am.’

Claire hung up and yelled for Baz. On his reply, she shouted: ‘Sorry, no lift today. Can you grab me a couple of cereal bars?’

There was an answering grunt from downstairs. She made a pout, grabbed a lipstick and with a rapid and practised movement circled her mouth. She squirmed her feet into a pair of pre-laced trainers. She’d settle for rubbing some toothpaste round her mouth with her finger in the car until she had time to use the toothbrush she kept in her desk at work.

She thundered downstairs, scooped up car keys, phone and briefcase from the hall table and then glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a post-tornado haystack. She gave a brief scowl and looked for her brush. Not there, so she attacked it with Baz’s own plaster-spattered comb. Better than nothing. ‘Baz!’ she called again. He emerged from the kitchen, a slice of toast jammed into his face, a plastic bag with her on-the-go breakfast in his hands.

‘Time to clean this,’ she said, swapping the dirty comb for the bag. ‘Have you fed Dexter?’

‘What d’you think that chomping noise is?’ he replied cheerfully.