The place felt and smelt as though no one had been in here recently. There were a few dishes in the sink and a half-empty bottle of Polish vodka sitting on a coffee table, two shot glasses beside it, both used, one with a lipstick imprint.

There was no laptop in the study area and no paper evidence of any work done there.

The bedroom was a mess. Not that different from Mark’s. Clothes and shoes scattered about. Wardrobe open. A space above that may have held a suitcase.

The bed was rumpled, the duvet thrown back, the bottom sheet stained by what might be semen. It was then he saw the photograph. The frame had been turned over next to the bed. On purpose or by accident, he couldn’t tell.

Olivia and a man, cheek to cheek, smiling at the camera. With a start, McNab realized where he’d seen the man before. Only then, he’d been bare-chested, his fists up.

It appeared the man who’d put his lights out in Glasgow and Olivia Newton Richardson knew one another very well.

McNab bagged the shot glasses, then went in search of alternative sources of DNA, the bathroom providing a couple of toothbrushes, a hairbrush and a discarded earring.

Hearing the front door being opened, he concealed his booty and went to greet Mr Wollstone.

‘All finished here, thank you.’

‘Did you find anything that might help locate Olivia?’

McNab ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘I take it the Met haven’t been here as yet?’

Mr Wollstone’s face fell. ‘The Met are involved too?’

‘I’d expect them to visit soon,’ McNab said, although he believed otherwise.

Out on the street now, he pulled out his mobile and rang Cleverly’s number.

The voice that answered was gruff and distinctly unwelcoming. McNab decided to make things even worse.

‘I’m in London. We need to talk.’

40

As the moon escaped the clouds again, Dougie urged Nadia to lie down at his feet rather than sit in the bow. They were coming within sight of the shore, and there was always a chance of being spotted by someone out late in the fields.

The girl was shivering, either from fear or cold. He couldn’t blame her. His own heart had been racing ever since he’d urged her from her hiding place to cross the slippery decks. She’d frozen at the sight of the ladder and it had struck him that she was as fearful of ending up in the sea as she was of being discovered.

He’d spoken encouragingly to her as he’d put an unprotesting Finn in his harness and begun lowering the collie onto the boat.