‘You mind what you say to me,’ Chivers said, pointing a fat finger at the cop.

Dalton grasped Chivers’ hand and eased it down to the table, unclenching the fingers one at a time. ‘Look, we’ve got a plan. Andy, you let us know who the probation officer is. We’ll follow, find out where Rollason lives, and nab him. Your involvement ends there. All right?’

‘You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?’ Wickens asked.

‘No, no, no,’ Dalton said. ‘Just rough him up a bit.’ He turned to Chivers. ‘Aren’t we?’

Wickens shook his head. ‘I can’t be part of murder. If you kill him they’ll only get fucking Gillard onto the case, or maybe even someone more senior. Then we’re all screwed. Keep it low-key, right? Not too many visible injuries. Warn him not to report it. Keep it off the radar. Think smart.’

‘Right,’ Chivers said, and gave a quick wink to Dalton.

Wickens looked at his watch and said: ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’ Without waiting for a reply, he made his way out to the door.

‘I don’t know what he is worried about,’ Chivers said, as he watched Wickens get in his car. ‘There won’t be a body. All those hungry crocodiles.’ He laughed.

Even in normal times Sam Gillard had only rarely been able to go out to dinner with Craig during the week. His shifts often spilled over into hours of unplanned overtime. So she had made other evening arrangements: badminton, a book club, and every other week a girls’ night out with her colleagues from the police control room. But since her kidnap ordeal, she hadn’t been out of the house much at all. She had been diagnosed with PTSD and had two months left of sick leave. Her most regular outings had been to the twice-weekly therapy sessions. But now she was beginning to feel a little stronger, and chafed at her domestic confinement, even though it was medically recommended. She missed the busy camaraderie of the control room, the buzz and the excitement, the fact that every day was different.

At home, every day seemed the same. For the first time in decades she had completed a jigsaw. It was four p.m. and she had just fitted the last piece of sky when her husband rang to ask if she wanted to accompany him, tonight, to J’adore Ça, one of the trendiest restaurants in the area. He had managed to secure a nine p.m. booking that evening. Even though it was quasi-official business, Sam could not quite believe it.

‘You do know it’s a very upmarket place, don’t you?’ she asked him.