‘We have to assume that he does,’ said Jackman. ‘If he’s been going that way for years, he’ll know the area.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Ring the others, get them in ASAP. I’m going to contact Ruth and get her decision. I want to be out there as early as possible. If that kid’s still alive, he’s on borrowed time. There’s only so long Spiller’ll be able to maintain whatever pretence he’s concocted.’

He hurried away. He was right. Even the trusting Davy was going to smell a rat at some point, unless he was very gullible, which wasn’t the impression Natalie Miles had given them. Yes, Jackman was right, the boy was on borrowed time.

* * *

Vic Blackwell woke up with a start. Wound up after the capture of Freddie Shields, he hadn’t gone to bed until the early hours of the morning, and even then he’d slept badly, wondering if he’d get a call with a report on Freddie’s mental state. Still not knowing, he rang the station custody sergeant, and was told that Shields should be fit enough for questioning after a good night’s sleep and then a further check that morning.

He ended the call, dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, already worrying about Shields. Apparently, as soon as he got to the station, Freddie had become compliant. He apologised for his behaviour and ceased to struggle. He kept asking for Dr Archer or Professor Page, appearing to have no recall of his earlier encounter with them. He claimed to have fallen into a deep sleep and only came to when he was tasered. Vic believed that story about as much as the one about Father Christmas coming down the chimney. He’d seen plenty of game players in his time in the force, and he was pretty sure that Shields was one of them. How likely was it for a man to go from ranting lunatic to reasonable citizen in the space of an hour? Come on! Vic stood rinsing off the soapsuds, thinking about what the crew who brought him in had said. Apparently, Shields had raved about some person who had “taken advantage of him.” The uniformed officers had believed Shields was referring to a recent event, which was odd, because at the time he was supposedly fleeing a crime scene.

Vic stepped out of the shower, towelled himself dry and padded over to his jacket, slung over the back of a chair. He took out his notebook and thumbed through it. Something didn’t add up.

He read it, reread it and cursed. He pulled on his clothes and, skipping breakfast, locked up and ran out to his car. He needed to look at the log and see what the crew had actually said.