Gillard made his way right over the far side of the bridge and crossed through the kissing gate into the pastures at the far side. Fortunately he had brought wellingtons, because the grassland leading down to the water on the downstream side was like a swamp. He splashed up to the water’s edge, and looked under the first vaulting span. He tried to get closer, but the newly formed mudbank sucked him down almost to the top of his wellies within a few steps. He was still a good fifteen feet from the water. He shone his torch into the shadowy gloom. Endless amounts of plastic rubbish washed down from God knows where, the full David Attenborough eco-disaster. He supposed it would eventually be washed out to sea to choke some poor turtle.

The detective stared at the waters, the gentle herringbone ripples like melted chocolate. Any of this, from the sandbank to the waters themselves, could conceal the body of the woman he loved. Being here now seemed essential, an act of faith and loyalty to Sam, to look for her in the place she would most probably be found. Yet at the same time, the professional side of him knew it was a complete waste of time and effort, because unless he was to don a wetsuit and get right in there, there was no hope of spotting her.

Under the bridge/ That’s where you’ll find her/ cold, with the fishes/ drowned by your own hand

That was the thing that really mystified him. Drowned by your own hand. It didn’t make any sense. There was nothing he would ever do that would put Sam in danger. He just couldn’t find the answer to the riddle. Even as he turned his back, he felt like he was abandoning her. Meanwhile, whoever it was who’d kidnapped her had the entire Surrey constabulary rushing around at their own bloody headquarters.

Returning to the pub, Gillard ordered a round of roast beef sandwiches with chips, and pulled up a bar stool next to the log burner, which had filled the public bar with a toasty heat. He checked his phone to see if his contact at the fire and rescue services had got back to him. Ideally he wanted a fresh search underneath not only the main Lacey Dutton bridge but at Gorlaston too, where the yellow Allegro had been trapped. He’d repeatedly viewed the YouTube footage of the inverted vehicle, bobbing away like a disconsolate toy duck.

The landlady, a solidly built woman with a helmet of dyed blonde hair and a shrewd expression, asked him about the investigation. He answered mechanically, giving away as little as possible.

Drying glasses and placing them on a rack above the bar she asked: ‘The women who were in the car didn’t have anything to do with each other, did they? That’s what the papers say.’

‘Sorry, I hope you don’t mind, but I can’t discuss operational matters.’ He took a bite of his sandwich, which had been well seasoned with a fiery horseradish.