Turning her head back towards the kitchen, she could see Fuller was still bent over the sink, taps running. Could she make it to the door before he heard her? So slowly that she could feel her thigh muscles straining, she stood up. She needed to keep out of his peripheral vision for as long as she could to give herself as much time as possible to get to the front door before he noticed. Edging backwards, she pressed her back against the wall. He was out of sight now. She was about to begin her descent when she heard the hard, metallic squeal of the taps being turned off. The water stopped. She could hear the blood pounding in her eardrums. The silence was all-consuming. Then she heard him. He was coming her way.

The fifteen minutes it had taken Mark Stone to weave his way through the highways and byways of the Gloucestershire countryside to get from Bailsgrove to the M5 might as well have been fifteen hours. He was well aware of the fact that if Clare had found Fuller there was every possibility they might already be too late.

But he couldn’t allow himself to think like that all the time there was a chance – any chance. He’d put out an all-points call on Fuller but so far without luck. And Despatch had found him that address. The only trouble was it wasn’t number 46, and when he’d asked her again, Jo had insisted she was still one hundred per cent sure that wherever Fuller’s house was it was definitely number 46. And when Despatch had sent a couple of uniforms round to check out the listed address there was a Latvian family living there. Turned out Fuller and his wife had moved out months ago. So now they only had Jo’s memory to rely on.

He asked, ‘How many times have you been to Fuller’s place?’

‘Just the once.’

There was a moment’s silence before he said, ‘You better have a bloody good memory then. Don’t you people keep employment records? You know, with little details like where your staff live?’

‘Yep. And they’re all on Clare’s password-protected laptop back at the office.’

Fucking IT security. He hated it.

They were still a good five minutes from the outskirts of Gloucester as he dodged his way through the thickening traffic on the motorway, blue lights flashing, siren blaring.

Suddenly, Jo waved her hand at the approaching road sign, ‘That’s it. It’s the A40 exit.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Right.’