‘Indeedy.’ She walked over to a pair of French windows, fiddled with the lock and pushed them open. They led out to a balcony.

‘Take care with the edge cos the fence isn’t that high. Great views too. On a clear day, you can see IKEA.’ She laughed at her own joke. Her phone trilled. ‘Excuse me, I need to take this. Close the door behind you and I’ll see you downstairs.’ She disappeared down the hallway.

Abu Mujahid’s body language and manner changed in an instant as he stepped out on to the balcony. Gone was the vacant expression, in came a look of determination. He fished out a pencil and scrap of paper from one pocket and a metal tape measure from the other and measured the dimensions of the balcony roof, and the width and height of the French windows. He made a sketch of the balcony, indicating the direction of north. Then, he stood on the edge of the balcony and slowly surveyed the scene. It took him ten minutes before he was satisfied and re-entered the sitting room. ‘Thank you,’ said Abu Mujahid to the woman downstairs, his smile reinstated. ‘It’s perfect. I’ll take it, please.’

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

DI Skeffington was studying his screen intently while talking to three DCs behind him.

‘We’ve had this from Campbell in Bexleyheath, ma’am,’ said Skeffington, still looking at the screen. It was CCTV footage from a garage forecourt, timestamped that morning. ‘That’s Fletcher on the way to use an ATM.’ Skeffington pointed to a figure walking across the concrete. He froze the image. ‘Looks like he’s shaved his head, but it’s him.’

Gabriel peered at a figure in grey on the forecourt.

‘That’s him,’ she said. She looked closer, comparing the picture with the photo on his Chilton Park file. ‘If he managed to get himself a haircut, then there’s no way he was sleeping rough last night.’

‘He could have brought a razor with him.’

‘Come off it, Neville, look at his clothes, his hair. Hardly look like he’s just spent the night in a hedge.’

A second video, from a high-street camera, showed the scene a minute later. Fletcher was walking fast, head still down, towards the camera.

‘This is the high street in Bexleyheath,’ said Skeffington. ‘He goes off camera here and doesn’t appear at the next camera four hundred metres down the road. So he’s turned off into a residential street.’

Gabriel felt a surge of euphoria. She stood up and considered, but rejected, the idea of a fist-smack into her palm. ‘So why Bexleyheath?’ She was speaking now mostly to herself. ‘We know he lived there as a kid. He must have friends there. Maybe he’s visited recently.

‘Skeffington, pull Fletcher’s financial records, get a team to look for visits to this area, find patterns. And get down on the scene with Campbell – you two make a lovely couple.’

She stormed off, ignoring Skeffington’s bewildered expression, and walked over to Bose, who was nibbling at a baguette at her desk.