Gabriel sat up, banging Ray’s shoulder with the back of her wrist. He grunted and rolled over. She struggled for her glasses on the bedside table.

‘Yes.’ She slammed the phone, too hard, into her ear.

‘Boss, you okay to speak?’

Gabriel straightened the collar of her pyjama top and yanked her pillow from under Ray’s arm. He moaned but went back to sleep. Gabriel looked at the alarm clock. It was 4.49am.

‘Sure. Hang on.’ She wriggled up more, shoving another pillow behind her back.

‘Sorry to call, ma’am, but we’ve got the analysis from the phone records of Tanvir Mirza’s family.’

Gabriel was suddenly fully awake. ‘Go on.’

‘They live in West London – Hounslow. Mother, father and younger sister. We were looking for unusual activity. His parents’ home number was called on Sunday this week, late at night, from a mobile phone. The call lasted fifteen minutes. It appears to have been a burner – the SIM card was bought from a store in North London two weeks ago. It’s only been used once, to make a single call from a mobile phone in Cumbria – almost certainly from the holiday cottage where they were staying or nearby.’

‘That’s Mirza. Listen, Eva, I know it’s early, but I need you round at his parents’. Get them up. How long will it take?’

‘Twenty minutes this time of morning, ma’am.’

There was no chance of sleep now, so Gabriel rose and dressed. She would drive to the office and be there when Bose reported in.

#

Hounslow, West London

The Mirzas lived in a 1930s red-brick end-of-terrace house. The front garden had been paved over to create a parking space, and the entrance was around the side. Bose rang the doorbell twice and waited, ensuring her face was lit from the street lamps. The lights came on in the hallway and a chain rattled before the door opened. The silhouette of a rotund, short man, possibly in his fifties, stood in the doorway and Eva held her police ID card in front of his nose. The sudden roar of a plane heading into Heathrow just a few hundred yards above Bose’s head made her jump.

‘Sorry to wake you, Mr Mirza. It is Mr Mirza, isn’t it? I’m with the Metropolitan Police. May I come in? It’s very urgent.’ She put on her calmest voice.

The man nodded and opened the door. He looked terrified. Inside, Mrs Mirza stood on the stairs in a cream dressing gown.

‘What is it?’

‘I was explaining to your husband, Mrs Mirza, I’m with the police. No one is hurt – nothing like that. I just need to talk to you about an extremely urgent investigation. Shall we sit?’

They moved into a sitting room. Bose perched on a floral sofa. ‘This is a lovely room, Mrs Mirza.’

Mr Mirza stared. ‘It’s Tanvir. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr Mirza, it is. Do you know where your son is?’

The mother got in first. ‘He’s at university, Islington. What’s happened? Is he okay?’