But they couldn’t contact the club yet, because that might alert the kidnappers, if they had a contact or a scout therein. And because there was no time: the text hadn’t said when, but nobody doubted the kidnappers had meant right now. A taxi was called. Nick kissed Anna’s cheek and told her everything would be fine.

‘Don’t worry about me. Good luck.’

Happy that she seemed confident, no longer a shivering wreck, he grabbed the shoebox and went out. Middleton even wished him luck.

Corporation Street was lined with commercial establishments on both sides, but partly open to the east with access to Minster Gardens and All Saints Church. It was also one-way. The taxi found a spot right outside the bingo club. Nick paid and got out. The shoebox was tucked under his arm with bear-hug strength. He had a horrible fear of being mugged.

Bongo Bingo’s ground floor glass frontage allowed him to see inside reception. One old lady sitting behind the desk in a pink shirt with a cartoon bingo balls motif. A couple of women, and a young man in a tracksuit and baseball cap playing fruit machines against one wall. If he’d seen a unicorn inside, this day wouldn’t have felt more surreal.

‘Yob on the fruit machine,’ he said, trying not to move his lips. He felt silly doing it. There was no reply: the transmission was one-way because an earpiece couldn’t be risked.

Nick watched the young man as he entered and approached the desk. He pretended to take in the reception, turning in a circle. It was so he could sweep his tiny collar camera over the young man.

In the Carters’ living room, Nick’s crackly voice was heard asking to join the club. The female receptionist told him to fill in a blue form. He thanked her and then there was silence, presumably as she got back to work, and Nick jotted down his details. Anna listened from her place by the patio door. She opened the blinds with two fingers and peered out, her face grim.

Nick’s camera had given the detectives a description of the receptionist, which was passed by Bennet down the phone to the bingo club’s general manager, who’d been contacted at home on his week off.

‘Negative on the receptionist,’ he said a few seconds later. ‘Sixty years old, wheelchair, only friend is her dog.’

Anna glanced out into the garden again, and shook her head in frustration.

On speaker, a phone rang. The room heard the receptionist say the call was for Nick. Someone asking to speak to the guy in the black T-shirt who just walked in. Whispers flowed around the room as everyone realised the kidnappers had called him at the club.