For a second she was back in the kitchen at Barrowman; she could smell the sewage and dog piss, the mildew and the gin on Keira’s breath, see the knife in Paul’s hand and feel Frank’s bruising grip on her arm. The dog barking as Dom let it off the leash at her. Her chest tightened. She saw herself with an assault rifle, forcing the whole pack of them back down the kitchen and then firing into them. Jesus, Ellie. You’re meant to be a professional. Fucking well act like one.

Breathe. In and out.

“Right,” she said. “Upstairs.”

“What about –”

Ellie followed Bert’s gaze to the pantry door under the stairs. “Good point. Forgot.”

Thoroughness. Doing the whole job. That was who she was meant to be. Focus.

The door hung ajar, battered and splintered, and the bolt on the inside – why on the inside, in a pantry? – had been torn out of the wall. Ellie pulled the broken door open. There were shelves stacked with jars and tins – jams, pickles, canned meat and fruit – and on the wall directly opposite, another black mark.

Ellie stepped over the threshold to inspect the rest of the narrow space. When she did, the floor gave slightly underfoot, with a very faint creak, and another sound came from underneath it. In a built-up area, with traffic and passers-by outside, she mightn’t have heard it, but in the silent house on that silent morning, it was just audible: a high-pitched noise somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

Ellie pressed down with her foot again, and once more felt the floor shift. It was covered by a thin, coarse piece of loose carpet. She crouched, pinching a corner of the material between her gloved fingers, and threw it back.

A square trapdoor had been cut into the floorboards, with a metal ring set into it. A cellar?

“Bert?”

The big man shuffled forwards. “What can I do you for?”

“Just hold this for me.” Ellie handed him the torch and took out her baton, putting her thumb on the release catch, then hooked a finger through the metal ring.

As the trapdoor lifted, another muffled cry came from underneath – pain or fear, Ellie couldn’t tell which. She kept her hand on the baton all the same.

Bert shone the torch down as Ellie pulled the trapdoor away. There was no cellar; under the trapdoor was an earth-floored crawlspace about three feet high. Kate Beck was crawling painfully away from the torchlight, her right hand held up to shield herself from it. Her left arm was immobile, twisted at an angle that made Ellie feel sick.

“Please,” the girl said, her voice a croak. “Please.”

“It’s all right, love,” said Ellie. “You’re safe now.”

“Please. Please. Please.”