For a moment, he was tempted to smash a window and let himself in – and break the fucking babysitter’s neck.

The problem was, he knew that’s exactly what he would do if he went in.

Reluctantly, he turned away, climbed back into the Hyundai and drove down to the main coast road. He halted at the T-junction, signalling right. As he was about to pull out, he noticed a tiny pinprick of light a long way off in the murky darkness. A ship of some kind, out at sea.

And suddenly he had a thought that momentarily pushed his anger to one side.

The thought stayed with him, developing more in his mind, as he drove along the gusty road, through Rottingdean and Kemp Town, and then along Brighton seafront.

Back in Roy’s house, he poured himself a large whisky, then sat down in an armchair and thought some more.

He was still shaking with anger about Ari.

But the thought stayed with him.

And it was there when he woke, three hours later.

He had been rubbish at most subjects at school, because his dad, who was either drunk or stoned, and beat up his mother, consistently told him he was no good, the way he told his two brothers and his sisters they were no good either. And Glenn had believed him. He’d spent his childhood being moved from one care home to another. Geometry was the one subject he had liked. And there was one thing he remembered from that, and it had stuck in his head all night.

Triangulation.

At nine o’clock in the morning, Ian Tilling sat at his desk in his office in Casa Ioana, in Bucharest, and enthusiastically studied the lengthy email and scanned photographs that had come in from his old mate Norman Potting. Three sets of fingerprints, three e-fit photographs, two of young males and one of a young female, and several photographs, the most interesting of which was the close-up of a primitive tattoo of the name Rares.

It felt good to be involved in some detective work again. And with the briefing meeting about to start, it was really going to feel like the old days!

He sipped his mug of Twinings English Breakfast tea – his elderly mother in Brighton posted him regular supplies of the tea bags, as well as Marmite and Wilkin & Sons Tiptree Medium Cut Orange Marmalade. Just about the only things he missed from England that he could not easily obtain out here.

Seated on wooden chairs in front of his desk were two of his female social workers. Dorina was a tall twenty-three-year-old with short black hair who had come to Romania from the Republic of Moldova with her husband. Andreea was an attractive girl. She had long brown hair and was dressed in a V-neck brown jumper over a striped shirt and jeans.

Andreea reported first, giving the general consensus that Rares was quite a posh name, and was unusual for a street kid. She opined that the tattoo was self-inflicted, which indicated the girl might be a Roma – or Tigani – a gypsy. She added that a Roma girl and a non-Roma boyfriend would be very uncommon.

‘We could put an announcement up on the main noticeboard,’ Dorina said, ‘with the photographs. See if any of our homeless clients have any information who these people might be.’

‘Good idea,’ Tilling said. ‘I’d like you to contact all the other homeless charities. Andreea, if you could get these to the three Fara homes, please.’

There were two Fara homes in the city and a farm out in the country, charitable institutions set up by an English couple, Michael and Jane Nicholson, which took in street kids.

‘I’ll do that this morning.’

Tilling thanked her, then glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting at the local police station at half past nine. Can the two of you contact the placement centres in all six local authority areas?’

‘I already started,’ Dorina said. ‘I’m not getting a good response. I just spoke to one, but they refused to assist. They’re saying that they cannot share confidential information – and that it’s the police who should be making the enquiries and not some director of a charity.’

Tilling thumped his desk in frustration. ‘Shit! We all know what kind of help to expect from the bloody police!’

Dorina nodded. She knew. They all knew.

‘Just keep trying,’ Ian Tilling said. ‘OK?’

She nodded.

Tilling sent a brief email back to Norman Potting, then left the room for the short walk to Police Station No. 15. To the only police officer he knew who might be helpful. But he was not optimistic.

Glenn Branson, feeling alert and wired despite his ragged night, stood in the corridor outside the briefing room, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and an All-Day Breakfast egg, bacon and sausage sandwich in the other. Members of the team were filing in through the doorway for the Wednesday morning briefing meeting.

Bella Moy stepped past him, giving him a wry smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Healthy Eating!’ she said.

Glenn mumbled a reply through a mouthful of his sandwich.

Then Bella’s phone rang. She glanced at the display before stepping to one side to answer it.

Moments later, the man Glenn was waiting for, Ray Packham, from the High-Tech Crime Unit, appeared.

‘Ray! How are you doing?’

‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘The wife had a bad night.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Jen’s diabetic,’ he said, nodding. ‘We went out for a Chinese. Her blood sugar was off the scale this morning.’

‘Diabetes is a bummer.’

‘That’s the problem with Chinese restaurants – you don’t know what they put in their food. All tickety-boo in your neck of the woods?’

‘My wife’s got a medical condition too.’

‘Oh blimey, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah, she’s developed an allergy to me.’

Packham’s eyes gleamed behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. He raised a finger. ‘Ah! I know just the chap! I’ll give you his number. Top allergist in the country!’

Glenn smiled. ‘If you’d said he was the top divorce lawyer, I might be interested. Look, before we get into the briefing, I need to ask you a quick technical question.’

‘Fire away. Divorce. Sorry to hear that.’

‘Not if you’d met my wife, you wouldn’t be. But hey! I need to pick your brains about mobile phones. Yeah?’

More people squeezed past them. Guy Batchelor greeted Glenn with a cheery, ‘Good morning.’ The DS waved his sandwich at him by way of a reply.

‘You’re a film buff, Glenn, aren’t you?’ Packham asked. ‘Did you ever see Phone Booth?’

‘Colin Farrell and Keifer Sutherland. Yeah. What about it?’

‘Crap ending, didn’t you think?’

‘It was all right.’

Ray Packham nodded. In addition to being one of the most respected computer crime experts in the force, he was the only other film buff Glenn knew.

‘I need some help on mobile phone masts, Ray. Is that your terrain?’

‘Masts? Base station masts? I’m your man! I actually do know quite a bit about them. What exactly are you after?’

‘A guy who disappeared – on a boat. He always had his phone with him. Last time he was seen was on Friday night, sailing out of Shoreham Harbour. The way I figure it is that I might be able to plot the direction he was heading in from his mobile phone signals. Through some kind of triangulation. I know it’s possible on land – what about out at sea?’

More people filed past them.

‘Well, it would depend on how far out and what kind of boat.’

‘What kind of boat?’

Packham launched into an explanation, his whole body becoming animated. It seemed that nothing in the world pleased him more than to find a home for some of the vast repository of knowledge that was stored in his head.

‘Yes. Ten miles and more, out at sea, and you can still be in range, but it depends on the structure of the boat, and where the phone is situated. You see, inside a steel tub, the range would be drastically reduced. Was this particular phone on deck, or at least in a cabin with windows? Also the height of the masts would be a big factor.’