‘Duck Lane,’ Clara finished for him, peering closely at the screen. The slightly hazy, bleached-out film showed the narrow dead-end road off Broadwick Street that ran behind the string of office buildings, shops and cafés lining Brindle Press’s part of Wardour Street. It was used by delivery vans to offload their supplies to the various businesses’ back entrances – as well as being where Brindle employees came to smoke, make private phone calls or take part in periodic fire drills.

‘OK, so this is footage from seven thirty-six on Tuesday evening.’ Anderson went on, ‘If you watch, you’ll see Luke leave the building and walk towards Broadwick Street.’

The sudden shock of seeing Luke’s image, his posture and gait so familiar, so loved, triggered such a rush of longing that her eyes swam. She stared hard at the screen, watching as he left Brindle and turned to call something over his shoulder, giving a brief wave. ‘George,’ she murmured. ‘He’s waving goodbye to George, the security guard.’

Anderson nodded. ‘OK. Keep watching.’

At that moment, a blue van appeared, approaching Luke from behind. The second it passed him it stopped, obscuring him from view. She glanced up at Anderson in confusion. ‘What …?’

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘The van stops for eight seconds … OK, now it’s moving off again.’ Sure enough, the van continued on its journey to the end of Duck Lane, whereupon it turned right and disappeared from view. Next, Anderson leant forward and with a few clicks of the mouse called up a different camera angle, this time giving a view of Broadwick Street. ‘As you can see, Luke doesn’t reappear, either before, during, or at any time after those eight seconds that the van stopped for.’

‘Well, didn’t he just turn right?’ she asked. ‘Towards Wardour Street I mean?’

Anderson shook his head. ‘We’ve checked all the CCTV footage and Luke doesn’t reappear again anywhere in the vicinity, on any of the surrounding streets.’

Clara stared at him. ‘So … he got into the van?’

‘There’s nowhere else he could have gone.’

Her mind raced. ‘Then it must have been a friend of his driving – or at least someone he knew?’

‘Possibly.’ Anderson leant back and folded his arms. ‘The van stops for eight seconds. We have no way of knowing why Luke got inside.’ He paused and looked at Clara. ‘What we do know is that the van was stolen from a business address in Ealing, late on Monday evening.’

‘Stolen? But …’

‘We managed to track its onward journey as far as the M20, but we lose ANPR coverage of it shortly after it leaves the motorway and heads in the direction of the Kent Downs, not far from Dover.’

She tried to make sense of what he was telling her, mentally searching for possible explanations, but found none. She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I don’t …’