Angie Wright had given Perry an address for Halliday’s storage unit at Shildon, not far from Pirbright, halfway between Woking and Farnborough. The light was failing by the time he got there, and he only just spotted the turn-off, an anonymous right turn on the B3400 just before a railway bridge. The detective steered his VW down the long, bumpy and descending private road alongside the main London to Basingstoke railway, which gradually rose above him to the left. The access road was lined with dozens of 1930s industrial units which backed on to the embankment of the busy line. Perry guessed that they had been originally owned by the army, from their curved hangar-like roofs and because in many cases they still bore the flaking remnants of olive drab paint on doors and windows. They now hosted low-rent businesses, from car repair, windscreen replacement and marine engineering through to skip hire and party supplies. Most entrances were hedged in by vertical sheets of corrugated iron, crowned with barbed wire, and the gates padlocked. Many had no signs at all. The largest was a scrap metal yard whose chained Alsatians barked as Perry drove slowly by. The road dipped gradually, and turning left through an arch under the railway line reappeared in the man-made canyon between two diverging train tracks. This crescent-shaped piece of land boasted a dozen businesses under the railway arches to left and right, with the gravel apron between them gradually widening as the two railway lines diverged, until it ended at a disused spur of a canal. Halliday’s place, unit K, was right at the end, nearly on the canal, separated from the towpath by a high barbed wire fence, through which nettles, ragwort and a variety of other weeds grew in profusion. A mini skip sat outside.

Although the brickwork of all these units looked neglected, and was dotted with buddleia at the higher levels, there were signs of care. Perry spotted two modern CCTV cameras with night vision capability over Halliday’s place. The white cabling looked fairly new, as did the roller door, which was secured by a series of new, shiny and very hefty padlocks.

Perry stroked his chin. There was no one here, and it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to go digging around under this kind of surveillance. There were easier ways to get back at the man. He stepped out of the car, and walked over to the skip. There were bits of timber, a bag of plaster, and some old electrical kit. Shining his torch in, he spotted a sheaf of soggy papers. One or two were business letters to Kyle Halliday at this address. He hauled them out, and stuck them in a bin bag to examine later, once he had dried them out.

He had one more piece of theft to do before the night was out.

Perry had only ever seen cops going through bins on TV dramas. It was the sort of thing that private detectives did, sneaking in for a dig through the rubbish. But having heard that Halliday was away on business, and his wife out for the evening, he had a golden opportunity. He had studied the CCTV of the car theft from the same address, and knew that the only motion sensor light was on the house to the right, as you faced it. Fortunately the wheelie bins were on the left, next to the garage. It was the recycling he was after. Any incriminating paperwork would be in there. It had to be done before Monday morning, when the bins were emptied at the same time as his own.