‘Yes, she has done us all proud.’ He blinked and seemed to be reassessing his least favourite relative. Eventually he emerged from his reverie, and steepled his hands either side of his nose. ‘I can’t sleep, Claire, not knowing where Sam is. There has got to be something I should be doing, because every minute counts. I just don’t know what.’

Friday

Gillard awoke with the dawn chorus in an unfamiliar bedroom. It was 5.17. a.m. A loudly ticking clock metronomed his anxiety, as if counting down the time available to find Sam. The alarm he had set last night was not due for another hour, but he flicked on the light anyway. Claire had shunted out her eldest son to his girlfriend’s place, to make room for him. The posters on the walls were hardly reassuring, dead-eyed skeletal zombies wielding knives above the name of the latest computer game in which they featured.

He grabbed at his phone, a lifeline to hope. He’d been copied in on every development. Trish had undergone an emergency operation to relieve the pressure in her brain, but was still in a coma. Elsewhere there wasn’t much to learn. Sam’s black Renault hadn’t triggered a single ANPR camera since ten p.m. It had just disappeared, much like the Mitsubishi Warrior. He wasn’t hugely surprised. Surrey had an enormous network of tiny back lanes, many of them ancient, even within the great encircling loop of the M25. Those who could read a map could easily navigate a way anywhere within the county without having to use motorways or dual carriageways. He flicked back through all the emails and official notifications going back to the moment that Sam’s car was first reported missing. Then he went through his voicemail, which included many messages of support and encouragement both from his colleagues, and those who worked with Sam in the control room.

He found it too upsetting to listen to them all, and decided to use his energy in a more practical fashion. He shrugged on the borrowed bathrobe, and padded off to the bathroom. The heating hadn’t kicked in yet, and the water was cold, but he welcomed the invigorating chill as he splashed his face. Claire had manhandled him out of his home so fast he had neither a change of clothes, nor any toiletries. She had left for him a new toothbrush, and a deodorant. That was all he needed. He couldn’t quite face a cold-water shave, and dressed hurriedly into last night’s clothes.

Trying not to wake anyone, he padded carefully down the stairs, but on his way into the kitchen ran into Dexter, Claire’s boisterous and waist-high Irish wolfhound. The dog eyed him suspiciously, presumably half remembering the smell from previous encounters years ago, but unsure why someone who was almost a stranger should be sneaking about his mistress’s home in the twilight. A low growl confirmed the animal’s concerns. The detective’s whispered hello and attempt to stroke his head engendered only a raucous bark. A half minute stand-off ended with a sleepy shout from upstairs from Claire, telling Dexter to behave. The wolfhound would have none of it, so Gillard abandoned his plans to leave a thank you note in the kitchen, simply scooping up his keys and racing for the door.