Middleton’s home was three miles northwest of the Carters’, just past Loxley. It was on the edge of a road overlooking fields, but the three-storey stone house was denied the view by a high hedge atop a grey stone wall running the length of the road. You had to enter the grounds to determine where his land gave way to the neighbours’, which was achieved through a stone archway barely wide enough for his car. Detective Constable Ella Hicks was instantly jealous because she lived in an end terrace with walls so thin she could hear her neighbour’s microwave oven beep. And those fools swore by ready meals.

The old stone garage had a single sliding door, made of serious metal, that curved around the inside wall when open, but when this modern safety feature was installed, an old wooden door in the side got overlooked. The floor was linoleum, the walls tiled, ceiling painted, as if it had once been a kitchen. Now it was just a room for junk. Big boxes lined one side wall and the back, and a long bookcase of smaller boxes filled the other side wall. In the centre were two long standing racks of clothing in polythene to create aisles. It was all pretty neat and clean. Ella walked between the racks, skimming a hand across clothing that rustled. Middleton sat on an ornate stool she hadn’t noticed in one corner.

‘Don’t pull things out, please. Point and ask and I’ll clarify.’

She didn’t point, though. She opened each of the big boxes and peered in. To reach the bottom, items had to be removed and stacked on the floor. There was more clothing, and there were items she imagined were useless because they were doubled up: when two households became one, nobody needed a second teapot or an extra toilet brush, and there was such a thing as too much cutlery. Most of it was stuff that should have been thrown away, but on the drive over Middleton had already pointed out that Anna’s mother, swept from the world by bowel cancer three years ago, had been a bit of a hoarder, loath to discard anything because you never knew when something might have a use once again. None of it gave a clue as to Nick Carter’s character or where he might run if he snatched his kid.

Another big box had three trophies lying atop a mass of items, each depicting what looked like two people wrestling. She didn’t pull them out. ‘Are these Anna’s or Nick’s?’

‘Jane’s. She was the best female of her weight in South Yorkshire until her elbow played up. It was the only sport she could really do.’

‘I’m impressed. But why are the trophies in here?’