‘Excuse me a second, that’s my husband coming home,’ she said without turning around, and then she was gone.

Porter and Styles looked at each other, and then back to the window. The engine noise became briefly muted, and then stopped altogether. They heard a soft whirring, presumably the garage door motor, followed by soft footsteps on the gravel, and the click of the front door opening as Mary Locke prepared to greet her husband. He walked past the window too quickly for them to get a good look, other than to see he was wearing a suit. Porter heard strains of a conversation, and leant forward, tilting his head to the side, as if the extra few inches would improve the sound quality, but he couldn’t make anything out.

Less than a minute later, Alexander Locke strode into the living room. He reminded Porter of the actor George Hamilton, silver hair but minus the permanent mahogany tan that Hamilton sported. The information Simmons had given on him put him at seventy-four, but with a relative lack of the years’ wear and tear on his face, he could easily be mistaken for ten years younger. He sized them both up as he approached and made his pick as to the alpha between them, extending his hand to Porter first, who rose from his seat to take it.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, I’m Alexander Locke. You must be Detective Inspector Porter?’ said Locke, shaking Porter’s hand with a firm grip.

Porter nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Hello, Mr Locke, and this is …’

‘Detective Inspector Styles?’ asked Locke, switching his hand and smile away from Porter.

‘Just Detective Sergeant for now,’ said Styles, smiling at the correction, ‘but who knows, one day?’

Locke gestured for them both to sit back down. He took the seat opposite that his wife had previously occupied, while she, after following him meekly back into the room, sat timidly to his right. She had been a nervy thing to start with, but Porter noted that the arrival of her husband had taken this to a new level. She looked from her lap, where one hand sat protectively covering the other, up to her husband, and back again, but not at Porter or Styles.

Locke unbuttoned his jacket, leant back against the sofa and crossed his legs.

‘So my wife tells me you think something has happened to her stepdaughter?’ There was just the faintest hint of North London in his voice. Porter wondered if it came and went depending on the company.

‘That’s right, Mr Locke,’ said Porter. He quickly summarised the case so far while Locke listened impassively.

‘And you’re sure the hand belongs to Natasha?’ he asked when Porter had finished.