‘Okay, Ellen. I’m going to let you in on the secret.’ He held his mobile next to the answer machine and pressed play.

‘Craig. You are being rather dim. It’s gone five in the afternoon, and I’m here with Sam.’

He attempted to click stop on the machine at this point, but the buttons were tiny and for some reason it ran on and took two more attempts. So she also heard: ‘I can’t put her on the line, because she’s gagged. In fact she is rather trussed up altogether. I’ve been enjoying her again, Craig, in a variety of ways, but—’

Ellen’s scream of betrayal drowned out the rest.

Chapter Sixteen

It was DI Claire Mulholland’s bad luck that she was in the first car responding to the location tracked by the NCA team. Sat in the back, she was hanging on for grim death as the BMW touched eighty along winding country lanes heading for Westmeare. In front of her, two long-haired leather jacket-clad detectives called Worrell and Blunt seemed to think they were starring in a Netflix drama series. Blunt’s extravagant revving and gear changing almost seemed designed to attract attention. He kept up a banter with Worrell at a low enough volume not to be heard in the back, and largely ignored her. She may have been senior to both, but they clearly regarded her as extraneous baggage. Just a local plod along for the ride.

‘It’s not very far,’ Worrell said, looking down at the iPad on which the short trace of the burner phone was illustrated against a Google map. ‘Down here somewhere,’ he said to Blunt. The phone had been turned off within a minute of leaving a voicemail message at Gillard’s, and had been on for only a couple of minutes beforehand.

They shot past the Westmeare bus stop, the last place where Beatrice Ulbricht, at least the real Beatrice Ulbricht, had been seen. ‘Stop here,’ Claire said. ‘This will be the place.’

Blunt ignored her and instead took an instruction from Worrell to turn right, with a G-force that would have thrown Claire across the car had she not been belted in. Adrian Singer’s cottage flashed past at missile speed.

‘Blunt!’ bellowed Claire. ‘Stop the fucking car, that’s an order.’

She saw his eyes slide to Worrell and a slight smile before he jammed the brake on so hard that Claire almost joined them in the front. The BMW slid sideways, tyres smoking, clipping a hedge until Blunt, steering into the skid, straightened it up, then whipped the vehicle round 180 degrees.

‘Stop being such a little wanker, detective constable,’ she said.

He tugged a generous forelock towards her. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He managed to make even that sound insubordinate.

‘Give me the iPad. I think you’ll find the message was sent from the bus stop.’

Worrell tossed the device over his shoulder without looking at her. She caught it, got out of the car and walked the hundred yards back to the bus stop. It was a precise match for the location. She looked around the bus shelter and noticed that on the wooden seat was a pair of women’s knickers. Basic M&S cotton jobs.