As she put the phone down Jane felt as if she had betrayed Pam’s trust by not saying anything about Tony’s arrest. She knew she’d told Tony she wouldn’t, but feared if Pam found out she’d been to the station and then said nothing . . . Pam would never forgive her.

*

Jane got to work at just before nine and Teflon was already there. The Colonel and Bax were about to leave to visit Frank Braun, and Cam was sitting at Katie’s desk reading the Sun with a coffee.

‘You look like you’ve had a rough night – knock a few glasses of wine back when you got home, did ya?’ Cam asked.

‘No, I had a dodgy tummy and didn’t get much sleep.’

‘Dabs just rang in and said he forgot to tell you something about a lock last night.’ He rummaged around the desk. ‘Him and Stanley are going to meet outside the snooker hall later—’

‘What did Dabs forget to tell me?’ Jane asked impatiently.

‘Keep your hair on, Sarge, I wrote it down but can’t find the bit of paper . . .’

She sighed. ‘Try under the bloody newspaper.’

He lifted it up. ‘Oh, right. Here it is!’

‘That’s why he’s only the fucking driver,’ the Colonel muttered as he left the room with Bax.

Cam read out what he’d written: ‘Dabs forgot to tell you that forensics said the lock on the burnt-out garage door was engaged when the fire brigade ripped it off.’

‘OK. Any luck with the children’s home the Wilson twins were sent to?’

‘I’m waiting for Tottenham to get back to me with details of the homes on their patch, then I’ll start ringing them.’

Jane suspected he hadn’t even bothered to call them yet but thought it best not to pull him up on it, unless he didn’t have a result when she got back.

‘Is DI Kingston in yet?’

She needed to get to the bottom of what he’d said last night.

‘He called in and said he had to deal with something at home, but he’d be in later.’

She walked over to her desk.

Teflon nodded. ‘Morning, Jane. I rang Tottenham control room. The Bluebird cafe closes early on a Saturday, so it looks like we’ve got a few hours to spare before we can speak to the owner in private . . . You look a bit rough – you ill?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said tetchily, feeling a headache coming on from lack of sleep.

She got her pocket notebook out and looked at the notes of the conversation she had with Helen Clarke, the woman living at 40 Edgar House, then rang and asked her if she’d spoken to her husband about locking the garage. Helen apologised and said she’d forgotten to let her know he’d left the garage unlocked and empty as he didn’t want thieves forcing entry.