Claire interrupted with information that Perry had called in just an hour previously. ‘Halliday might well be driving a black Range Rover.’ She read out the number plate.

She had already awoken the duty magistrate, a rather grumpy fellow in Norwich who clearly thought it unnecessary to be pulled out of bed at six o’clock on a Sunday morning. The warrants approved, two NCA cars plus a people carrier full of uniforms had been dispatched ten minutes ago. One to the address in Fleet that Gabriel Hallam, a.k.a. Kyle Halliday, had told Ellen Bramley was his own, and the other to the industrial unit at Shildon.

‘Unit one ETA Shildon twenty-five minutes,’ Otara announced. ‘Unit two will be at Fleet in five minutes.’

The DCI looked up from a clipboard on his desk. ‘Where the hell is PC Lynne Fairbanks? She was due on at six.’

A sergeant at the far end of the room raised his hand. ‘I rang her home number, sir, and there is no reply. I assume she is on her way.’

Slack, Claire thought. Biggest case for a decade and the woman has probably overslept.

DCs Worrell and Blunt raced into Fleet, and turned off the siren five minutes before reaching the address at 7.15 a.m. The house they had been directed to was an anonymous three-bedroom redbrick semi in a row of similar 1980s homes. An old red Fiat was parked outside. They cruised up and parked quietly. The two disreputable-looking leather-jacketed individuals sprinted up to the door. While Blunt rang the bell and peered through the reeded glass door, Worrell eased his way over the back garden fence and noticed there was a sliding rear door. He stood next to it with his back to the wall, just like he’d seen cops do on TV.

‘Police, open up!’ Blunt shouted, as he banged on the glass UPVC door. A shape coalesced behind, and the door opened. A teenage girl in fleecy pyjamas and puppy-headed slippers with a mass of dishevelled wavy blonde hair stared at them in alarm.

‘Where’s Kyle Halliday?’ Blunt yelled as he forced his way in, waving a lanyard vaguely in her direction.

‘Moved out two months ago,’ the girl said. ‘My parents are renting it now, but they’re on holiday in Crete.’

‘Nothing personal, darling, but we’ve got a bit of legal paper which allows us to take a look around anyway,’ Blunt said, racing up the stairs and banging from one room into another. Worrell pushed past too, into the lounge and kitchen. There was nobody there. While Blunt made some notes, Worrell returned to the doorway, where the girl had now donned a bathrobe and was sitting on the stairs.

‘What’s your name, love?’ he asked.

‘Becky Keene. My dad is Gerald and my mum is Mary. I hope you didn’t hurt my rabbits,’ she pouted.

‘Your rabbits are fine,’ Worrell said, not having noticed any. ‘You’re a bit young to be in the house on your own.’