He walked up to the door and rang the bell. An Asian woman in traditional dress answered the door. She hadn’t heard of Gary Harrison, nor of the family with two kids who had supposedly lived at number fifty-nine. The detective knocked at two other doors nearby, but gained no more information. The address was the one Harrison had used when he was employed as a chef in a college at Bromley seven years ago. Gillard had already checked with the employer, an educational trust which had since sold off the Bromley site to concentrate on others that it owned. Harrison’s manager was no longer on the payroll. Thanks to Rainy Macintosh, Gillard already knew that no contributions had been made on Gary Harrison’s national insurance record in five years. The home address that HMRC’s national insurance unit in Long Benton had for him was the address of the college.

More dead ends.

It was clear that Gary Harrison had reinvented himself under another name, was almost certainly in another relationship, and quite probably some way away from this, his old stamping ground. There were pages and pages of Gary Harrisons on Facebook, on LinkedIn, in the National Archives, and presumably in phone books and electoral registers across the country. In all probability the man himself would not be found under this name in any of these places. With enough resources, and lots of time, it might eventually be possible to find him.

They just didn’t have enough time.

And the abductor might not even be him.

It was at that point Gillard decided to abandon the search for Harrison and concentrate on more promising leads. If there were any.

Gillard was dreaming about one of their holidays, a five-day trip to the Arctic Circle to see the northern lights. He could almost feel the warmth of Sam’s hand in his as they crunched through the thick snow, towards the soft shimmering searchlights that seemed to emanate from the pine forests ahead. Wakefulness slid like a knife between his ribs, the realisation of her absence. He was in his own bed, but lying on Sam’s side, clasping one of her navy blue pullovers to himself as if it was a hot water bottle. The aroma of her enveloped him, a comforting miasma.

He had let himself in at midnight, having driven around the Chipstead area trying to spot any suspicious vehicles. It was of course a complete waste of time, as he didn’t know what he was looking for. Gillard had parked the Vauxhall in an adjacent street and walked back, just in case someone was watching his home. Rigby didn’t want him staying there, but she could hardly prevent him from doing so. The PC was no longer stationed at the door, seeing as he wasn’t expected to be there. In theory, back home and on his own, he was at risk.

Well, bring it on. He was ready.

The largest carving knife in the house was on his bedside table, and he was wearing a tracksuit and socks. Not for him the fate of poor Kyle Halliday, skin ripped on the road while trying to save his car. If whoever had taken Sam wanted him too, he would go down fighting.