Tunnicliffe had taken his jacket off, and had found a rusty metal crowbar. He smashed at the passenger-side window, which exploded like a bomb, showering glittering diamonds on to the concrete. Hooking out the glass, he then laid into the ice beyond.

With the door now down again, the temperature in the vault rose rapidly, and the car began to sweat, water trickling down from the panels and the roof, dripping down onto the floor, puddling by the inspection pit and draining out under the roller shutter.

The locksmith came back with his blowtorch and set to work on the driver-side lock. He then handed the blowtorch to Hoskins while he used a set of delicate-looking instruments inside the Mitsubishi’s lock. A clunk announced the unlock, but the door wouldn’t open. Tunnicliffe lent his considerable size and weight to the effort with the crowbar. The driver-side window exploded, and the window frame bent under the big man’s strength. Eventually the door creaked open, and more officers could get to work on the ice. From this angle they could see she was clothed, a dark shadow within the translucent ice, the top of her head and hair just six inches from the surface. The locksmith and Tunnicliffe worked on the passenger-side door, trying to wrench it open, while Hoskins used the blowtorch to carefully melt the ice around her.

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

The verse played in Gillard’s head as he chipped away at the ice, and watched the meltwater coursing down over the sills of the car and draining away into the inspection pit. A bang from somewhere low within the car reached their ears. They stopped and listened, the ping and click of the car’s expansion echoing the drip drip drip of the melting ice. Another bang, and a splash, as the vehicle adjusted to the rising temperature.

One of the female PCs was hacking furiously away at the ice with a screwdriver, her hands mauve with cold. ‘Keep going! She could still be alive, people can live for hours after being frozen,’ she yelled.

Gillard could now feel some of Sam’s hair, soaked, ice cold. He forced his hand through into the ice and touched flesh beneath the hair. As cold as a glacier. The ice so reluctantly surrendered its grip, merely weeping under the assault of the blowtorch, resisting every blow. There just seemed to be no way to speed up the process. It took a few more passes of the blowtorch before a great lump came off, and Gillard could get his fingers down a narrow gap, to feel further down the face. A nose, an open mouth. If she’s alive, there will be warmth inside. He tried to slide a finger into the mouth, but it ran into more ice, so cold it almost welded his fingertip to her teeth.

‘Any warmth?’ Claire asked, softly.

Gillard shook his head. ‘Cold as stone.’ She’s dead.