‘Gabriel bought Ellen a pair of Jimmy Choos,’ Sam said, her eyes flicking towards their guest’s elegantly shod feet. He welcomed this hint. He’d heard of the luxury brand, but hadn’t known whether it applied to handbags, wristwatches or lingerie.

‘Very nice,’ Gillard said, reaching towards the open bottle of wine. It soon became apparent that Ellen was in no state to drive, and he hoped that he wasn’t going to be asked to give her a lift to the station. As he went upstairs to change he popped his head into the spare room, and was relieved to discover it had been made up for a guest.

The curtains were open, and he went to close them. The guest bedroom looked out over the front of the house. He glanced out and could see no signs of life in the bungalow opposite. Good. Sam had complained about Gillard’s aunt Trish staring in at them.

The detective was off duty. So he paid no attention to the aged red Fiat parked a little further down the cul-de-sac. But someone inside was paying attention to him. After fifteen minutes, the car engine started, slid into gear and drove quietly away.

Sunday

Britain’s weather seemed to be at its worst that April Sunday. Craig and Sam Gillard had given up the outdoor rock climb in favour of half a day spent indoor bouldering near Southampton. The mountain biking they had planned for the afternoon was a washout, with a thunderstorm so intense they were soaked in seconds. Lightning continued to arc across the sky as they departed, and they were stuck in a jam trying to get on the M27 because of power cuts to traffic lights. Now, having reached the motorway early on Sunday evening, the weather hadn’t yet finished with them. The eastbound M3 motorway was closed from Winchester because of an accident, the A31 was flooded at Alton, the A3 closed at Godalming. They had reset the satnav to go cross-country, and finally re-entered Surrey at eight p.m. on the B2139, heading east, south of Godalming. They were just outside the delightful riverside village of Lacey Dutton, waiting at traffic lights to cross the sixteenth-century single-lane Loxcombe Bridge over the River Wey. As they edged along the leafy road in crawling traffic, the rain began to hammer down on the roof of the Toyota RAV4. There was no traffic coming from the other direction.

‘That’s not a good sign,’ Gillard said, trying to make himself heard above the pounding on the roof. ‘Maybe the traffic lights are out here too.’

‘That’s all we need,’ Sam said. It took another ten minutes for them to get within sight of the bridge. The road was two inches deep in water, and began to resemble a stream. A couple of cars ahead were making U-turns, giving up on the wait. The lights seemed to be working, but traffic was stationary. Gillard reached over into the back seat for his waterproof jacket. He wriggled into it, slid on waterproof trousers, and pulled the cuffs down over his boots. ‘I’m going to take a look ahead. There’s an unmarked road to the right we could take if the bridge is out of action.’