Gillard blew an exhausted sigh. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll let the emergency services know.’

By now the fire service were in full possession of Loxcombe Bridge. Dozens of helmeted officers were guiding onlookers away from the threatened structure and using chainsaws to cut the tree which had separated the bridge crowd into two communities. Fire appliances had managed to work their way to the forecourt of the Jolly Boatman, where they trained arc lamps on the river. By the pub a fire service inflatable was being manhandled off its trailer by a crew of four. Gillard buttonholed the big firefighter who had helped him, and explained the situation. A call was put through to the fire chief on the other side of the bridge, and a thumbs up was given from the rescue boat.

The big officer relayed a message back. ‘The manageress of the Jolly Boatman says she’s got free dinner and a room for the night for you and your wife, for putting your lives on the line. She’s offered the front dining room which is still dry for the woman and her daughter, assuming they don’t have to go to hospital.’

As the crowds gradually seeped from the bridge, one man sat in his black four-wheel drive watching Gillard, once again at the centre of attention under the arc lights. What on earth was that damned detective doing here? Oh, and Sam too. That was a surprise. The man clenched his fists on the wheel. Always in the way. Wherever he was, whatever he wanted to do, Gillard always seemed to be in the way. Never mind, he could adapt the tactics. He’d proved that. He’d had to think quickly tonight after the power failed, but the solution he had come up with was ingenious. And it seemed to have worked perfectly. With luck it would give him many days’ grace to clear up, without anyone suspecting. Overall, things were going to plan. To keep Gillard busy, working long hours looking for the missing girl, was a perfect feint to draw the detective away from the spectacular main event. The driver smiled to himself as he contemplated the next step in his campaign to destroy the man who had usurped him. What Gillard was involved in now was nothing compared to what would happen next. Nothing. He reversed the car aggressively out of the forecourt of the Jolly Boatman, forced a gap in the crowd of bystanders, then drove away, back into Surrey.

Wrapped in blankets in front of a roaring log fire in the lounge of the Jolly Boatman, Gillard and Sam sipped mugs of cocoa and nibbled the plate of chocolate biscuits they had been provided with.

‘So what happened to the yellow car?’ Sam asked.

‘The fire service said it got pulled right under the bridge. It’ll be downstream somewhere. They are telling me that more than forty vehicles have been washed away into the river. And there are still two caravans trapped under Loxcombe Bridge. The whole Lacey Dutton campsite has been flooded.’