‘So we set up camp in the husband’s house and wait for the ransom call then,’ Baarda said quietly.

‘If she’s lucky,’ Connie said. ‘That really depends on what her kidnapper wants from her, doesn’t it? Drive me back to my hotel? I need to write up my notes.’

‘Now? Shouldn’t we be reporting back to the family and going into the police station for a briefing? I usually leave note-taking until the evenings.’

‘You’re a policeman, DI Baarda. You follow procedure, have meetings, share information, chase up leads. My job here is not the same.’ She walked to the passenger door of his car and climbed inside, clicking her seat belt securely and double-checking its reactive lock mechanism by tugging on it firmly as Baarda got in next to her.

‘I just assumed you’d want to be as involved as possible. You know, the more information the better, make sure no one’s missed anything.’

‘I’m here to paint a picture of the man or woman who currently has possession of Elspeth. I’m assuming it’s a he, but there could be a she behind this if it’s extortion, a revenge kidnapping or an attempt to distract from a different sort of offence. That could be anything from insurance fraud to corporate manoeuvring given her connections.

My task is usually much simpler. When you have a string of dead bodies there are patterns, victim similarities, situational similarities. Even then, I can’t be distracted by processes, procedures and police politics. Here, I’m throwing darts at a profiling board almost blindfolded. So I need to go back to square one, and see if I can do justice to the fact that I’m being paid. I can’t do that in the middle of probable chaos in a police station. You’re my filter.’

Baarda pulled away, waving gratefully at the uniformed officers who cleared the road to let him pass.

‘You worked extensively with the FBI, I’ve been told. Why did you never become an agent?’

‘That was the dream.’ Connie stared out of the window as they passed mottled heathered verges that disappeared into bushes. ‘My achromatopsia prevented me from becoming an agent, so I chose a profession that would allow me to work with the in-house profilers.’

‘What do you miss?’ Baarda asked.

Connie looked at his face. The question was vague, but the tenderness of his features gave away his meaning. She softened her usual brusque tone, aware that her manner was professional bordering on stony. It was a persona she’d cultivated to counteract some institutional misogyny along the way, and not a little condescension when people learned that she was ‘colour-vision impaired’. The person who’d coined that phrase had left the room soon after she’d responded to him, never to be seen on the same working squad as her again.