Her too. She hangs up, pushing away an image of the dead man’s brutalised face, and walks on down the towpath, worried that she’s wasting Hart’s time. Should she go back, check that the man at the station is OK? If it was his son, he might have moved on already, although she remembers teenagers used to hang around the shelter all day, not going anywhere.

She spots the boat before she sees Jake, listing to one side and partially submerged. It was their home for twelve years and now it’s officially a wreck. Spent. All she saw from the train window was a glimpse through the trees. Up close the sight is even more shocking. Confirmation, as if it were needed, that what Jake and she had together is over.

And then she sees Jake, behind the towpath, sitting on the grass on his own, leaning back on his arms, tree-trunk legs stretched out before him. A fallen giant. He is staring at the boat and is yet to see her. For a moment she stands still, thinks about walking quietly away, catching the next train to London, but she’s come this far now and they should talk.

53

Silas

Silas looks around the empty platform. It took him a lot less time than it should have done to get here, his single blue light allowing him to skip plenty of red ones as he imagined Conor leaping in front of a high-speed train. He dropped everything after failing to access the security cameras on the station platform. All of them were down.

He lights up a cigarette, the first he’s had in a while, and walks back to double-check on the shelter. If Conor has been here, there’s no sign of him. It’s deserted apart from some old cans in the corner. Silas used to know when Conor had returned in the night to sleep in their shed at the bottom of the garden. He could smell the weed in the woodwork. Perhaps he has taken a train west or retreated into the countryside. Silas looks up at the woods on the hill, wondering if he’s out there somewhere.

He’s about to call Kate on his mobile, ask her if she’s still in the village, when Strover rings.

‘Any luck?’ she says.

It’s good of her to check, but he knows she hasn’t called about his missing son.

‘What have you found?’ he asks.

‘You might need to talk to the boss again.’

Strover gives him the details, far worse than he feared. Three more super-recogniser units whose main players have disappeared. One in Madrid four months ago, another last month in Amsterdam. And a third in Hamburg two weeks ago. No publicity, all three forces keen to keep their units out of the limelight. No one yet to make the link.

‘Civilians or cops?’ he asks.

‘Civilians.’