With Bones dealt with and ready for his court appearance, which he seemed surprisingly chipper about given the circumstances, Jessica was back to investigating the deaths of Cassie and Grace. Forensic results were now officially in for Grace, and endorsed many of the initial indications. The killer of the two women was almost certainly the same person: taller, male, right-handed, thick fingers, comfortable with a knife, and so on. It didn’t add much because that was who they were already looking for.

Just as she was about to go and find him, Archie came hurrying out of the corridor that led to Jessica’s office, Post-it pad in hand, grin on his face. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.

‘Is that why you’re dribbling?’

Archie wiped the non-existent saliva from his face, grin disappearing. ‘I’ve been wading through your taxi list. There’s an ANPR camera a quarter of a mile along the road from where Cassie disappeared. We checked it at the time but it hadn’t thrown up anything unusual. When I ran the list of taxi number plates, there were a few but all on duty, all easy to account for because the offices know where their drivers are. There’s one exception.’

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Trawling through endless lists of numbers and names might not seem like real police work but it was how most crimes were solved. For a new constable like him, getting things to move on was as good as it got.

‘Go on,’ Jessica said, suppressing a smile, letting him have his moment.

‘I’ve got a plate registered to a black cab that was definitely off-duty. The driver went past that camera on the night Cassie went missing and the night Grace disappeared, too.’

‘Is there a picture of the driver?’

‘No, the angle’s shite, but we’ve got the name and the plate.’

He was bouncing on his heels, waiting for the metaphorical pat on the head. Jessica gave him a literal one instead.

‘Good boy,’ Jessica said. ‘Now let’s go get a bad guy.’

Linking the cab to Hamish Pendlebury had been the easy bit – finding him was not proving quite so straightforward. He wasn’t at home, and although he was technically supposed to be at work, he couldn’t be raised on his mobile phone, while there was some sort of problem with the radio system that connected the cab office to the vehicle. Officers were keeping an eye on ANPR cameras around the city in case he did pop up anywhere but there was every chance he’d nicked into the offy for his break and was currently sat in a park somewhere having a fag. Or doing whatever else it was taxi drivers did when they weren’t taking the long way round the ring road to get a few more quid from unsuspecting punters.

It was almost dark by the time Jessica, Archie, Rowlands and a uniformed PC – brought along because he looked like he worked out a bit – arrived at the taxi office. It had taken them almost half an hour of driving and walking around to find the place, before realising the door marked ‘Benny’s Lunchtime Supplies’ was actually ‘Tim’s Taxis’.

Jessica eased the frosted-glass door open and entered the reception area. Maroon velvet chairs lined a small room with peeling cream wallpaper and an overall smell of stale shoes. It was what seasoned observers might call ‘a bit of a hole’, with décor that harked back to the types of working men’s clubs that used to be so prevalent in the area. When she’d been in uniform, Jessica once had to visit one on the outskirts of the city. The older members had stuck a piece of white tape across the floor which they insisted females weren’t allowed to cross. When a pair of students had popped in for a cheap drink, the woman had naturally refused to abide by what she saw as an archaic law. After taking a seat on the ‘wrong’ side of the tape, all hell had broken loose, with threats of physical violence, allegations of sexual assault because they’d physically lifted the chair she was in, a riot squad, and two dozen other officers sent in to enforce the peace. When the police had pointed out that the club wasn’t allowed to segregate in the way it had, members had gone to the papers saying it was political correctness gone mad. Within four months, the whole place had shut down.

Jessica was about to stride through to the office at the back when a woman’s voice bellowed: ‘It’s not my fault you’ve not changed the sodding sign.’

A man’s voice shouted back: ‘All right, keep your bloody hair on.’

‘Don’t you fucking swear at me, you dickhead. It’s not my fault the bastard radios aren’t working either – I told you not to buy such cheap shite but it’s always about saving money with you, isn’t it?’

‘If you didn’t spend so much getting your hair done—’

‘What is it with you and my hair? Christ’s sake, you’re fucking obsessed.’

‘Oh, shove it up your arse – there’s enough room up there. Jesus, what is it, your time of the month again?’

Wallop.

‘Ow,’ the man’s voice shouted. ‘Fucking hell, you psycho bitch.’

Wallop.

Jessica opened the door again and slammed it this time. For a second there was silence and then a couple emerged sheepishly into the main waiting room. They were not what Jessica had expected: the woman with the big gob was shorter than she was, thin, tottering on heels, clutching an enormous bag and, in fairness to the man, it did look as if quite a lot of time, effort and backcombing had gone into her hair. The man, who Jessica assumed was ‘Tim’ of ‘Tim’s Taxis’ fame, was a hulk – over six foot tall, nearly as wide as the woman was tall, with long hair down his back that wouldn’t have been amiss in a biker gang. If this wasn’t proof that opposites attract then nothing was.

The woman glanced between the four officers and smiled sweetly. ‘Can you deal with this, Tim, hon?’

Tim had his teeth gritted. ‘Yes, sweetie, you go and get your nails done. I’ll see you at home later.’

A quick peck on the cheek and she was away, somehow managing to keep her balance in heels that would be classed as weapons in some countries.

Tim rubbed his upper arms as Jessica could sense Dave and Archie suppressing giggles.

‘I think someone’s already spoken to you,’ Jessica said. ‘We’re trying to find Hamish Pendlebury.’

With a frustrated toss of his hands skywards, Tim sighed. ‘Our radios have been on the blink. We’ve had to stop taking pre-bookings because I can’t get hold of anyone.’

‘But you also manage black cabs?’

The distinction was important because Hamish drove a black cab – a Hackney cab – which was legally allowed to cruise around looking for business and did not have to keep track of all the bookings it took. The private-hire taxis could only be pre-booked and full records had to be kept of all journeys.

‘We do a bit of both,’ Tim replied. ‘Nowadays you’ve got to dabble where you can.’

‘And Hamish is out in a black cab now?’

‘Right, but I don’t know where. Our system is down. I bought it in second-hand and the guy who fitted it reckoned it was as-new. Can you do anything about that?’

‘I think you’re after trading standards. Do you have any other way of contacting him?’

‘No, it’s not the first time it’s happened. Our private guys have to hang around waiting – either that or we call their mobiles. The Hackney lot go off and do their own thing until we can get in contact.’

‘I know you’ve gone over this on the phone but I need access to your tracking records of who’s on shift and when.’

Tim led them into the back but there was barely space for two of them, so Archie, Dave and the uniformed officer returned to the maroon room and took a seat. Tim showed Jessica how the computer worked and, after she’d wedged herself behind the desk, started fishing for information. ‘Is it, er, serious . . . ?’ he added.

‘Is what serious?’

‘The reason you’re looking for Hamish.’

‘I can’t tell you.’