‘Camilla, stop.’ I came across the room and grasped her hands. ‘None of this is your fault. Frederick is a sociopath. He’s fucked in the head. You’re a hero for surviving with him as long as you have. We’re going to take him down. He’s been selling information at work that’s getting our agents killed. I promise you he’s going to be out of your life very soon. But until we have him, until he’s safely locked up, you need to get away. Somewhere he can’t find you.’

‘Why?’ She looked up at me.

‘Because . . . because he might try and hurt you. He might try and take the kids.’

Camilla shook her head slowly. ‘No, Lex. He won’t. He wanted a wife, he wanted a family, because it’s what people did. Now you all know what he is, he doesn’t need to hide anymore. He doesn’t need us as part of his cover.’ She smiled through the tears. ‘We’re finally free.’

*

Camilla didn’t seem fazed when I told her my colleagues were currently searching her home. ‘Tell them to take as long as they need. We won’t be back for hours.’ She walked out pushing the pram and holding Florence’s hand, telling her about all the fun they were going to having eating mint choc chip and then looking for a new house to live in. Planning their new start seemed to have invigorated her.

Jake was ringing me. I answered it.

‘We’ve torn apart the house and found nothing. No clue as to where he’s gone. Nothing suspicious. And no hidden cash.’

I thought of something in his kitchen that was different. Something had changed since my last visit. I was too focused on trying to get Gigi safely out to notice it at the time but something was definitely missing. The room had seemed more minimalist. Even tidier.

What was it?

Florence’s pictures. The ones stuck all over the pinboard. The ones that had made me feel so guilty for binning Gigi’s. They were all gone. Why would he have taken them down?

‘Have you checked the bins?’

‘Yes, we’ve been through them all. Even the recycling.’

‘Any children’s drawings or paintings?’

‘Yes, there were about twenty of them. Utter shite.’

‘Take them apart. They were stuck up all over the kitchen three days ago at the WAF coffee morning. He must’ve only recently binned them.’

Jake rang back a minute later.

‘Do two-year-olds paint by numbers?’

‘No, Jake. That’s a little advanced.’

‘OK then – we’ve found a code. Under each bit of stuck-on tissue or twirly pasta or glitter are number sequences. I’m bringing everything in to the Platform. See what G and Pixie can make of it.’