She was lost in her thoughts when Skeffington walked up to her desk. He grinned down at her. Gabriel thought it looked more like a leer.

‘Ma’am, Rod Houghton’s our prime suspect. He hasn’t been seen for three or four days and his house is deserted. Looks like he knew he would be away for a while.’

‘What’s his history?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Top-rate military career. He was involved in a botched rescue op of prisoners held by the Taliban. Left the army three years ago. There was an allegation of bullying against an Asian colleague, but it wasn’t substantiated and the allegation was withdrawn. Currently lives alone and works as a part-time security guard. Took his entire four weeks’ holiday in one go and isn’t due back for another two weeks. No activity on his phone or bank accounts for the last four days. His phone was last used in London on Wednesday, bank card used to withdraw three hundred pounds on Friday from Central London.’

‘Have we nothing better? DNA from his house?’

‘Forensics are around there now,’ said Skeffington, annoyed that the breakthrough had not been received with a pat on the back. ‘And we’ve also been able to rule out three more family members from covert DNA collected last night and this morning – Joe and Graham Clifton and a Robert Houghton. I’m pretty confident this guy’s our man, ma’am.’

Gabriel gazed through the window to the pavement below. Circumstantial, yes, but also plausible. And like his associate, Douglas Glenister, another ex-squaddie.

‘Get the team together. Rod Houghton’s our man.’

#

Victoria Street, London

The Black Goat was tucked down a side street off Victoria Street, close to the Cinnamon Club, five minutes from Parliament and four from the Home Office. It had a reputation for expensive, mediocre British food and discreet private dining rooms. The paucity of the servings and the suspect wine list put it off the circuit of eateries beloved by MPs, political advisers and lobby journalists, and so made it ideal for Ben Thomas.

Hogarth was late. Her spad Nina O’Brien had agreed 12.30pm, and it was already twenty to one. He’d rather be having lunch with O’Brien, he thought, glancing again at his watch. Maybe it was the red hair or the piercing, but she looked like she’d be good fun. He felt a stirring and allowed his mind to wander.

‘Deepest apologies, Ben, so sorry to keep you.’ Hogarth’s voice broke his reverie. He dropped a napkin into his lap and half-rose as the waiter pulled out her leather high-backed chair. Hogarth was clad in a floral dress that was either cutting-edge fashion, or thirty years out of date. She looked like a pair of Laura Ashley curtains on legs, Thomas thought as he pecked her on each cheek. Old woman’s perfume too. Something an aunt would have worn.

‘Glass of something, Lesley?’ offered the Home Secretary.

‘Thank you – white, please. Italian. Are you not…?’

Thomas waved his mineral water with one hand. Hogarth knew perfectly well he was on the wagon. He watched in silence as she bustled and fussed like a cat preparing to settle down.