“Yeah, take a stab vest, it’s probably nothing,” muttered Jo as she shrugged on the heavy garment before walking out of the building and getting in the patrol car with Atkinson. DS Harper enjoyed a good moan, like everyone, but the truth was, she secretly loved it when staff shortages meant that she had to get back on frontline work. Joanna made the move to detective because she thought she’d prefer the investigative side of things. She wasn’t going to admit it to Murray, but it turned out she was much happier wearing a stab vest and breaking down doors.

“Mr. Franks?”

Jo edged along the hallway before pushing open the door to the living room. It was cold and dark in there, the power having been shut off along with the water. By torchlight she could see that the place was mostly tidy and relatively clean. A plate of toast crusts was balanced on the arm of the corner couch, along with an undrunk cup of tea. A box of toys had been put away against the wall.

In the kitchen, a packet of bread lay open on the counter. She picked up the nearest slice, felt it, gave it a sniff. Slightly stale. A phone was plugged into an outlet. Jo picked it up and swiped the screen, but it was dead. In the wallet lying next to it, she found a driver’s license and pulled it out. A kind face, lightly stubbled, the kind of thick, wavy hair Atkinson had ten years ago.

The next room off the living room contained an unmade double bed and a cot pushed into the corner, the mattress covered in a sheet, an open toddler sleeping bag bunched up on its end, as if the child had just been lifted from it. In the corner, a floral-print summer dress had been tossed, and on top of it lay a single pink baby sock fringed with white lace. Harper quickly scanned the room, then crouched to look under the bed. Nothing there but a collection of seashells in a box.

“Clear,” she called.

There was another bedroom, this one spotlessly neat, not a crease in the duvet cover or a single discarded item on the floor. Joanna opened the cupboards and found meticulously ironed shirts and trousers, all arranged in color order.

“Clear,” she called again.

Back in the main space the two officers stood in front of the last door. When Atkinson turned the handle, he found that it couldn’t be opened.

Joanna banged on the door with a closed fist. “Mr. Franks?” she said. “Gregor? Can you hear me? My name’s Jo. I’m with the police. Can you open the door?”

The silence was the buzzing kind, in which you strain your ears, hoping for a sound, any sound. There was nothing.

“We’re going to force the door, Mr. Franks,” said Jo. “Stand back.”