Most of the civilian day staff were just leaving as Gillard’s Vauxhall bullied its way into the car park, blues on, and slewed to a halt untidily in the bay reserved for a riot van. If ever there was going to be a one-man riot, it was now. The moment he burst into reception, the duty officer’s phone rang. His eyes flicked up to Gillard. He mouthed one word and gestured at the handset – ‘Rigby’ – and pointed him towards her office in the next building.

Two minutes later, Gillard was standing in front of the seated chief constable, having thrown every possible reason at her for having him continue to run Operation Hawkeye. Rigby steepled her long fingers, her nails short and glossy, and gave him the full benefit of the icy blue stare of death. ‘Craig, the sheer intemperate nature of your appeal to me makes it obvious that you’re in no emotional state to run a large, complex investigation. If you would calm down for just a moment, that would be perfectly obvious to you.’

She shuffled some papers on her desk, and then looked up at him. ‘I’ve passed the search for your wife to the National Crime Agency’s anti-kidnap and extortion unit. The AKEU have people who know exactly what they are doing. An officer will be here before midnight, and the rest in the morning. Now, I know you have unique information, and they will undoubtedly call on that. But I don’t want you here, getting under everyone’s feet.’

‘But ma’am, you won’t let me stay at home, because of the so-called threats to me. Where the hell am I supposed to go?’

Rigby sucked her cheek. ‘I advise you to moderate your tone, Craig. This is in your interests. We are doing absolutely everything we can to find Sam. I understand you have the keys to your late aunt’s house. Perhaps you could stay there? I understand she has cats that need feeding.’

Gillard could think of nothing worse. He had compartmentalised the prospect of his aunt’s death, someone he knew he would never miss even though he was grateful to her for pluckily following Sam’s abductor. But to be in her house, looking after her damn animals, would be like returning to the nightmare of his childhood that he thought he had escaped.

‘I can’t do that, ma’am.’

‘As you wish. But I don’t want you here. I’ve just authorised the suspension of your passwords for the PNC and the other databases. Give me your security pass and work phone.’ She even clicked her fingers at him.

Sullenly, he dropped them on her desk. He was waiting for her to ask for the keys to the unmarked Vauxhall, but as her phone rang she already seemed to be moving on to the next thing. ‘This is a call from Germany, Craig. Perhaps you’ll forgive me?’ She picked up the handset and exchanged a warm greeting with Karl-Otto Ulbricht.

The interview was over. Gillard turned and made his way down the carpeted corridor, lined with the stern portraits of previous chief constables going back over a century. He had made his marriage vows to Sam almost three years previously. To love, honour and cherish. To protect may not have been explicit, but to Craig Gillard it was central. Few people are better placed than a policeman to protect a woman he loves. But Alison Rigby had just taken away the tools for him to do it.