Silas adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. ANPR must have spotted his car in Nottingham. He was right. It’s all about identifying patterns. And the one that’s emerging now is far worse than he ever imagined.

‘When did ANPR pick him up?’ Silas asks.

‘A day before our PCSO went AWOL,’ the detective says.

The PCSO was the Nottingham super-recogniser unit’s best performer, like Kate.

‘Is he still missing?’ Silas asks.

‘Not a word. Family are keen to go public – we’re putting out a national misper appeal tomorrow.’

‘Where was the hit on Gilmour Martin’s vehicle?’ Silas asks.

‘New ANPR camera on the corner of Fletcher Gate and Victoria Street in the city centre. You need to tell us what’s going on.’

The detective is owed an explanation. Silas is just not sure he can provide one.

‘We’re investigating a possible connection between Gilmour and our own super recogniser who was badly injured in a car crash,’ he says.

‘And you think he’s linked to our PCSO’s disappearance?’

‘Possibly,’ Silas says. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as we know any more.’

‘It’s just that we’re struggling to find anything on Gilmour other than the “care of” address he’s given the DVLA,’ the detective says.

Silas glances at Strover. She did well to establish his arrival in the UK six months ago on a forged passport.

‘And up here, “care of” addresses tend to have a funny smell,’ the detective continues. ‘Have you visited this place in London? Nile Street?’

‘We’re on our way now.’

‘You really can’t tell us anything else?’ the officer says. ‘The PCSO was a good man.’

‘Not yet, I’m sorry.’

Silas hangs up. He can’t tell anyone, not even his boss. Not until he’s got more evidence. A moment later, another call comes in. Dublin number this time. Gilmour Martin’s been a busy man.

88

Kate

Kate’s legs are shaking as the car accelerates away through the London traffic in silence. It’s a Tesla, identical to the one in Cornwall. Putin stares at her in the rearview mirror. How did he get the scar on his head? She turns away, her heart still racing, head in turmoil. She can hardly breathe. What’s happening? Where’s Rob? The woman next to her on the back seat has said nothing since they left his flat. She knows it’s Cara. The same woman who boarded the train with her in the village, watched from across the street when she got into the car at Paddington. This isn’t opportune. It’s a well-thought-out plan. She presses her lips together, tries to be brave. The neckband feels tighter than ever.