When it eventually did it showed an image of two men. It must have been either last thing in the evening or early morning because the light wasn’t great. But David could clearly see they were standing in front of the Portakabin on the dig site. And just as obviously the figure standing facing the camera was Paul Marshall. He was holding something out in front of him, waving it in the direction of the second, thinner man. It looked like a package of some kind. The sound quality was atrocious and David could only make out a couple of Marshall’s words – ‘problem’ and ‘last chance’. The second man seemed to be arguing, shaking his head. But David couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then Marshall ripped open the package and withdrew its contents. It looked like a wad of twenty-pound notes. Marshall rippled his thumb through them, then shoved them back into what remained of the packaging. The second man started to walk away and Marshall grabbed him by the arm. Marshall swung him round and thrust the package into the pocket of the second man’s denim jacket. The second man looked up towards Marshall and started to protest. David could see who it was now. It was Neil Fuller.

Standing in front of the cracked and peeling front door of 46 Compton Street, Clare hesitated. Next to her, the tiny weed-choked front garden was overlooked by a substantial bay window, its curtains half-drawn even at this hour. Neil and Sadie obviously weren’t gardeners, but then they probably had other things on their mind at the moment.

Now that she was actually here, she was less than entirely sure exactly what she’d thought she was going to achieve by coming here. Even if Neil was here. But what harm could it do? At worst Sadie would be hacked off that his boss had come calling. At best … Well, she didn’t know what her best scenario was, but she did know she was worried about Neil.

She knocked. But there was no reply. She tried a second time. Still no response. At least she wasn’t waking the baby up. If she didn’t get a reply this time she’d go. Maybe Neil was upstairs or out the back. She rapped on the knocker harder this time, and as she was about to turn and walk away the door swung open of its own accord. It had been open all along.

She stood in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of her. The hallway was uncarpeted, the cracked Minton tiles splattered with several generations of paint. Above her a bare light bulb was swinging in its light fitting.

She pushed the front door to behind her and called out, ‘Hello. Is anyone in?’