‘He gave a home phone number when he was arrested. I just called and got his mother. But she claims he doesn’t live there. He lives with his dad, always has done, and she’s not heard from him in a week, and she’s got no contact number for him or any idea who would.’

She turned to the sink and ran the tea towel under cold water. Still she wouldn’t look at him. ‘So what happens next?’

‘We keep watching the B&B in case he returns. You’re sure that leg is okay?’

‘Okay. I mean, my leg’s okay.’

‘Okay. I better get back in the other room. Do you want to come and watch the progress?’

Her back to him as she wrung excess water from the tea towel, she shook her head. ‘It’s too much to bear. I can’t watch it.’

Bennet said he understood, then got out of there, and he did so aware that she hadn’t met his eyes since she dropped the kettle. At his mention of the suspect’s name, or the location.

Nothing in the bin outside Rotherham Central. Nick left behind a lot of puzzled people as he ran past the ticket office, over the bridge across the tracks and down on to Platform 2. Here, he stuck his hands into the only bin he could see and got lucky. An old phone, smeared with drying yoghurt. He couldn’t help wonder if that part was intentional.

Nothing happened for the next couple of minutes. Nick scanned faces, seeking someone shiftily watching him. But the problem was that the seven or eight on the platform had watched him rooting through a bin, so all gave him furtive glances. He also watched who entered after him, knowing that both sides, good and bad, might seek to deposit someone close by at all times. Throughout, he said nothing, just in case, somehow, the kidnapper learned of his betrayal.

The phone rang.

‘It’s 12.18, Nick. The 12.32 to Leeds, that’s your train. Once there, you’ll go to the Queens Hotel next to the station. Book room 50 and look under the bed. Take what’s there and give it to a man who will be sitting in the foyer when you come back down from the room. He’s going to leave your next instructions on his seat.’

The caller hung up before Nick could reply. Withheld number. He fought the urge to throw the phone. And he kept his emotions in check.

A middle-aged man in a white coat came on to the platform, just as the 12.20 to Meadowhall rolled in. The man tried his best to look casual, but Nick could see his chest heaving as if he’d been running. He knew something was off with the guy, but he turned his eyes away. If this guy was part of it, and he knew Nick knew, it would ruin everything.