Jackman hurried across to Kevin’s desk.

‘I’ve traced her father, sir. He still lives in Surfleet, he’s a GP there. I contacted him and he’s emailed me back asking for the officer in charge of the case to ring him. He refuses to speak to anyone else. I have his number here.’

Marie looked eagerly at Jackman. Things were moving, but not a moment too soon. Somewhere out on the Fen, a little lad was spending the night alone with a killer.

Jackman beckoned to her and she followed him into his office. ‘Have a listen, Marie. It could be important.’

She closed the door and sat down opposite him. He rang the number and the answering voice reverberated around the office, strong and assured.

‘Dr Julian Bourne. Can I help you?’

‘Good evening, sir. I am Detective Inspector Jackman of Saltern-le-Fen CID. I understand you were contacted by one of my detectives. We’re very anxious to speak to your daughter, Claire Spiller.’

There was a silence. Then: ‘Might I ask why?’

‘Her husband, Jordan Spiller, is wanted for questioning in connection with three deaths, sir, and he has now abducted a child, a boy of twelve. We need to speak with Claire as a matter of urgency. Do you know where we might find her?’

His sigh filled the room. ‘Yes, I know where she is, DI Jackman, but as to speaking with her, that’s not possible.’ Another pause — and was that faint knock a glass being set down? ‘This isn’t something that can easily be discussed over the phone. Could you come here? I am free tonight.’

‘We’ll come immediately, sir, if I can have your address?’

‘There goes my pizza,’ Marie muttered. ‘Was it just me, boss, or did he sound sad when you mentioned his daughter?’

‘Not possible to talk to her? That had a kind of terminal sound to it, didn’t it?’ Jackman said.

Just as they were hurrying through the CID room, the pizza arrived. ‘Eat it all and you lot are for the high jump! Got it?’ called out Marie.

‘Cold pizza. Ugh.’ Jackman pulled a face.

‘Cold pizza is better than no pizza when you’re as hungry as I am,’ said Marie.

* * *

The roads were clear of traffic. Friday night was no different to any other out in the countryside, and they were there in half an hour.

The house looked imposing. Judging by the brass plaque outside, Ferndale, as it was called, obviously doubled as the doctor’s surgery. It was an old, well-maintained property. Under the porch light, even the letterbox and doorknocker gleamed.

Julian Bourne was tall, somewhat overweight and dressed casually in a soft cream sweater and dark-brown trousers. He was in his mid-sixties but his wavy hair still carried a hint of brown. He led them through to a comfortable lounge lined with so many bookcases that the room resembled a bookshop or a library.