She’d been back in the office at 7.30am, dosed up on coffee, to review the crime scene report from the lead SOCO and the operational summary from the surveillance team. She read it again now. The woman who had come to the house last night was the girlfriend of Fletcher’s drinking friend Peter McAllister. She was shaken but uninjured and due to go home that morning. She claimed she had never met Fletcher and had gone round to feed McAllister’s cat. The North West Counter Terrorism Unit picked up McAllister in a Holiday Inn in Bury just after midnight. He insisted he didn’t know Fletcher was staying at his house, a claim corroborated by the scene-of-crime report – Fletcher had broken a kitchen window to get access and vomited over the bathroom – not the traditional behaviour of a welcome house guest, Gabriel thought. McAllister had been interviewed again at 6am, but there was not enough to hold him longer.

The SOCO report was intriguing. Fletcher had used McAllister’s computer to search the internet, mostly for news about Chilton Park, but also travel websites. His search history indicated he was planning a trip to Belfast by rail and boat. That fact rankled with Gabriel. Chilton Park had been carefully planned by the NRF and yet Fletcher had been making up his escape strategy as he went along. Again, Gabriel had a sense this was not the original intention. Was Fletcher supposed to have died at the park – and then had he chickened out?

#

Two hours later, Skeffington appeared with an uncharacteristic beam across his pinched face.

‘The gods are smiling on us today, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Digital forensics have cracked the phone abandoned at Chilton Park by the late, unlamented Gareth Fletcher and we’ve got his WhatsApp messages. Lots of crap, naturally, but two chats are well worth pursuing. One seems to be an alt-right group – the usual juvenile stuff. Bragging which celebrities they’d kill. Fletcher seems to have joined two years ago. There’s about half a dozen in it under fake names – “stormfront”, “white rage”, “ourcountry”. We’ve got a team chasing down the phone numbers and phone records. May be a link to the NRF there – or may be a bunch of kids pratting around. The second conversation is more interesting.’

Bloody hell, Skeffington. Just get on with it, Gabriel thought.

‘Fletcher was talking separately for nine months to someone calling themselves R. Looks like they met on a chat room and moved the conversation to WhatsApp, presumably for privacy. This R is goading Fletcher and encouraging him – which suggests he’s an NRF recruiter. Crucially, we’ve got a message from R three months ago, “Brilliant news mate”, to which Fletcher replies, “Ta – couldn’t have got it without yr help. Start next week.”’

‘Fletcher started work at Chilton Park two months ago,’ said Gabriel. ‘Did R get him the job?’

‘Looks like he helped him at least, ma’am. Then two weeks ago, R tells him to get rid of his phone. He says “STOP”, in capitals, “STOP using the phone. Dump it now.” That was the last time he switched it on. God knows why he decided to stash it in his hidey-hole in the cabin, rather than throw it down a drain.’