He took out a small, framed photograph of a boy. If Jackman had had any doubts as to who it was, the teddy bear under the boy’s arm would have told him immediately.

He was looking at Christopher. Teddy.

‘Are you dead, or alive, little man?’ he whispered. He looked closer. The boy must have been around six or seven when the picture was taken. He was thin, with a shock of almost shoulder-length blond hair and, sticking out from a pair of grubby shorts, the skinny legs with knotty knees that so many little boys have. There was a strange other-worldly look on his face, as if he wanted to smile but didn’t really know how.

‘And there’s this too.’ Jay held up a well-thumbed notebook. ‘Looks like names, dates, places and scribbled notes.’

Jackman took the book, flipped through it and saw the name Nan Cutler, heavily circled in black felt pen. He swallowed. ‘Bag this, Jay. It’s important. I need the whole thing worked into a timeline of events. I think we’re looking at a blueprint for murder.’

Stacey appeared in the doorway. ‘Mr Courtney can’t find a spare key, sir. He thinks he must have given them both to Spiller, but he said to go ahead and force it.’

Jackman gave the door a shake. It wasn’t particularly strong. He stepped back and kicked, somewhere below the lock. The door flew back and crashed against the wall.

The room was dark, thanks to the heavy curtain. He looked for a light switch and flipped it on.

It was a good-sized bedroom, the bed a pallet with a mattress on it, pushed up against the wall. A wardrobe stood next to it, the doors open. Most of the clothes were gone. On the wardrobe floor lay a pair of black spandex cycling pants and a matching black jacket. Two large, modern, white-topped folding tables pushed together took up most of the room.

Jackman could see the photographs from the doorway. He went to the tables and looked down on dozens and dozens of them. There were possibly over a hundred pictures there, all of boys between the ages of ten and twelve.

The photographs were laid out in a kind of circular design like the petals of a giant flower, or a mandala. In the centre, circled heavily in thick red marker pen, was a photograph of Davy Frances, edited and cropped to bring it into close-up.

‘The chosen one,’ he murmured. He felt sick. ‘We need Forensics in here. Stacey, ring it in, please.’

Stacey stood slightly behind him. ‘Did he take these himself?’ Her voice was low.

‘Looks like it, though some have been cut from papers or lifted from social media. You can see the stolen photos in the centre.’ Which meant that Spiller had been back, without the neighbour noticing. It also explained the heavy curtains.