Ratty gave a ragged sigh. Why did this other creep have to move in on his territory and spoil everything? It was too much.

Then he sat up straight. He recalled the figure slipping through that top opener and an idea occurred to him. He could never have identified that slippery figure as it slid silently inside, but he had, subconsciously, noticed something about it.

Ratty bit his lip. He’d never voluntarily contacted the police before, but needs must. He had to do something to get this interloper off his patch.

He went outside, out of earshot of his mother, and rang the police station.

‘I want to speak to PC Stacey Smith . . . No, no one else, just her.’

Finally, he heard a vaguely familiar male voice.

‘This is PC Jay Acharya. PC Smith is busy right now. Can I help you, sir?’

Damn, it was her oppo, the Asian bloke. Ratty thought hard. Same difference, he supposed. ‘It’s Reginald Jones. Ratty. Your mate asked me about the geezer I saw getting into that house the other night. Well, tell her it might help her to know that he was wearing them poncy tights you see on cyclists. I don’t know about the top ’cause he was already halfway through the window, but the tight pants caught the moonlight, and they were stretchy and shiny.’

‘Thank you, sir. That’s a great help. I’ll pass it on as soon as she’s free.’

Ratty hung up, a half-smile playing on his lips. Sir, eh? He chuckled to himself as he went back inside.

His eyes on his mother as she began to stir, he sipped his tea and had another idea.

There was a way of getting back out! Who better than him to help the police find this guy? He knew the kinds of houses and the types of windows matey boy would choose. Well, if the coppers accosted him while he was out, he could say he was helping PC Stacey Smith track the intruder.

He closed his eyes. Oh, relief! He wouldn’t have to endure another night imprisoned here. And as long as he was careful and didn’t stay out too long, he’d be able to resume his normal activities. He drank his tea and grinned happily at his mother. ‘Hello, Ma. Back with us? There’s a nice cuppa there, drink it while it’s still hot.’

* * *

Marie called Gary and Kevin over to the whiteboard and jabbed a finger at the picture of Nan Cutler. ‘We have to find out why this woman died, lads. Have to! She’s the key, the reason why our man took all those pictures of youngsters, I’m sure of it. Somewhere along the line she did or knew something that led to her murder. It’s particularly frightening because children are involved. So, tell me everything we have on her.’

Gary took a breath. ‘Right. She lived here all her married life but was born Nancy Eliza White in Winterborne Whitechurch, a village near Blandford Forum in Dorset. It’s not clear why her parents moved, but most likely they were following work around the country. Her father is recorded as being a labourer. Last mention of them as a family was in Thorney, outside Peterborough, where the father was working on the land as a picker.’