A pair of seagulls swooped down into the almost empty car park, and began waging war over a half-eaten sandwich. The victor hopped closer to the warehouse with his prize, while the loser pecked at the crumbs left behind. The door opened so slowly that neither of them flinched, continuing to devour their respective spoils. Awad watched the sun glint off the rear windscreen as the two officers drove away. He lifted the mobile to his ear, feeling the familiar nervous fluttering in his stomach that he did every time he had called the number, and this time was no different.

Alec Brookes lived in a modest first-floor flat on Keyes Road in Dartford. There had been no answer at first and they were about to give up when he ambled up the stairs carrying a Tesco carrier bag, loaf of bread peeking out, half squashed. Porter ran over the same explanation for their enquiries as he had given at the warehouse, and Brookes grunted an invite for them to follow him inside. He offered to put the kettle on, but they both held up the Starbucks cups that had been hiding in plain sight by their sides.

‘He was a good man,’ said Brookes, settling into an old brown leather sofa, with a cup of tea so pale it could pass for milk. ‘Always good to me.’ He had a puffiness around his eyes, the whites tinged with the slightest blush of pink. Porter wondered if he had not long been out of bed, or if he’d hit the bottle hard the night before. He glanced around the living room; the plate speckled with toast crumbs, the newspaper from the previous weekend, the ashtray filled with butts smoked right down to the filter. Doubtful that there was a Mrs Brookes.

‘What can you tell us about him, Mr Brookes?’ asked Styles.

‘He worked hard to build that business up after his dad died, I can tell you that. Even slept there a few nights when we had big shipments that needed to go out. He’d roll his sleeves up and sweat alongside the rest of us.’ Brookes had that faraway look in his eye now, the one somebody gets when they’re seeing past events as if they were present day.

‘Did you ever meet Natasha?’ asked Porter. ‘Did she ever come to the warehouse?’

‘Once.’ He nodded. ‘Couldn’t tell you when, exactly, but there was once. I think she was fresh back from a trip somewhere and she came to surprise him. Lovely girl.’ His voice trailed off and he sipped his tea to fill the silence.

‘What about when he lost the business, Mr Brookes? How did he seem when that happened?’ asked Porter.

‘Lose it?’ said Brookes with a sardonic chuckle. ‘That’s one way to put it.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Styles.