Dave must have noticed because he placed his hand in the small of Jessica’s back and leant in closely. His voice was barely a whisper. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

She meant it.

There were no clues as to whether the house had a number or a name. Jessica could see neither in the grim light. From inside the garage, bright white lights illuminated three other vans parked side by side, exactly as Dave had predicted. Each of them had the three-pronged curved logo in the corner with ‘BUNCE ’N’ BUILDERS’ and the contact details; the only difference was in the level of muck that was attached to the back doors. Parked next to the garage was an old Vauxhall that looked utterly out of place set against the splendour of the rest of the property.

After easing the van in front-first, the driver stepped back out, watching as the door hummed into place. Jessica could see only a silhouette of someone short with broad shoulders and heavy-looking boots. He stood for a few moments staring up at the house and then shrugged, walking briskly towards the front door, tossing the keys from one hand to the other and back again. Somehow, Jessica knew that it wasn’t his house and she wasn’t surprised to see him pushing the keys through the letterbox and then striding back towards the Vauxhall.

Jessica grabbed Dave’s hand and pulled him away from the gatepost, back across the road. ‘Quick,’ she muttered, waiting for him to unlock the car. Behind them an engine growled to life, headlamps raging bright across the road, illuminating the side of the car and the hedges beyond.

Dave fumbled with the key fob, panicking as he plipped the doors open. ‘Shite, he’s going to see us.’

He started to head for the driver’s side, but before he could move any further, Jessica already had the rear door open and shoved him inside. She launched herself after him, tugging the door closed with her foot. The lights from the Vauxhall dipped down and then up as it bumped over a grate at the front of the property, giving the driver an almost perfect view through their car window. Jessica put the palm of her hand over Dave’s mouth and then leant forward, kissing the back of her hand and staring into Dave’s eyes. He was so surprised that Jessica could see the red veins blistering out from the whites as the car lights hung on them for a few seconds before the vehicle turned and headed off along the road.

Jessica used the back of the front seat to heave herself up. ‘What?’ she said, scraping her hair out of her face.

‘Was that really necessary?’

‘I didn’t want him to think we were watching the house.’

‘So you’d rather he thought we were dogging?’

‘You wish – I only had a second to think.’

‘And your first thought was to make him think we were copping off by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere?’

‘Well, I didn’t hear you coming up with anything; you were too busy panicking.’

Jessica opened the door and climbed out, straightening her clothes. Dave followed sheepishly, brushing his hair forward with his hand.

‘What’s up with you?’ Jessica asked.

‘Nothing – apart from the elbow I got in the ribs.’

‘Stop complaining and get a move on. If we’re lucky there might be some chips left.’

‘What are you going to do about the logo?’

‘I don’t know yet – but if you can haul your arse out of bed tomorrow morning, then I know a cracking place we can get breakfast.’

32

The rest of the night’s operation had gone exactly as Jessica had expected: lots of moaning, no results and, perhaps more importantly, a closed chippy, no leftover chips and no one wanting to take the blame for eating the battered sausage. Jessica had no idea why anyone had thought their attacker would be prowling the area night after night after getting away with it twice, but that was far from the only thing going on at the station which she didn’t have a grasp upon.

At a little after two in the morning, Jessica called a halt and they headed back to the station tired and cold. Jessica sent a text message to Garry Ashford, caught up on some of the paperwork that seemed to be breeding on her desk, and then snatched a few hours’ sleep at home before attacking her alarm for doing what it was meant to and heading to the supermarket cafe.

Garry Ashford was already sitting at their usual table, empty mug stained by milk froth in front of him next to a well-scraped plate showing hints of baked bean juice. The relative calm of the weekday crowd had been replaced by weekend chaos, with children running in all directions shrieking as if possessed, pushchairs blocking every spare piece of floor where there might have once been space to walk, and plates, cups and cutlery stacked on every table. Meanwhile, frantic, suicidal-looking members of staff tried to take orders, clean the tables, and not break their ankles on the various toys that had been dropped around their feet.

Jessica swayed around a double pram, stepped over a plastic keyboard, trod on a soft giraffe, almost kicked a lad who dashed across in front of her seemingly from nowhere, and finally fell into the chair next to Garry.

‘We need a new meeting place,’ she said as a baby started wailing just behind them.

Garry looked her up and down. ‘You look like you’ve been sleeping in a bush.’

Jessica rubbed her eyes but didn’t have the energy to stop herself yawning. ‘I’m on lates, so spent most of the night in the passenger seat of a car.’ She nodded over Garry’s shoulder, to where Dave Rowlands was trying to extricate himself from the attention of two under-sevens, who were blocking the way into the cafe, demanding a toll. A boy had his hand out as Dave panicked, wondering whether he should give the kid a pound, or simply barge his way past.

Garry picked up his empty mug, clearly disappointed. ‘How does it feel that one of your constables is in the process of being mugged by a primary school child?’

‘I’m surprised it’s taken this long. Twelve’s the new sixteen – they’re shooting up in the school toilets and impregnating each other, so seven’s the new twelve. They’re probably part of some international smuggling gang.’

Dave was saved by the children’s mother finally noticing her little shites weren’t peacefully sitting next to her. She limped across the cafe wearing light grey leggings that were so tight they were almost grafted to her skin, then grabbed her boys by the arms, dragging them away as Dave apologetically ran the gauntlet of the rest of the cafe. He finally took a seat next to Jessica and Garry, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands. His hair was flat and unstyled, eyelids drooping heavily.

Garry puffed out a breath. ‘You look worse than she does.’

‘It’s too early.’

‘It’s almost midday.’

‘I didn’t get to bed until six and I’m working again tonight.’

Garry held his empty mug up. ‘This is a real day out, isn’t it?’

Jessica couldn’t stop yawning but took the not-so-subtle hint and stumbled her way across to the counter, ordering three cappuccinos, four espressos, two full English breakfasts, a caramel shortcake slice, a chocolate éclair and a scone. Her digestive system was going to hate her for it but after a pair of the espressos and half the breakfast, she was feeling almost human. Even Dave had perked up after working his way through his half of the food and his two espressos. Garry had wolfed down his scone in less time than it had taken Jessica to realise that there was a baby on the table next to them eyeballing her.

When they were finished, Dave shoved the empty plates to one side and wearily took a handful of printouts from his bag. Jessica placed the envelope that had been put through her door in the centre of the table, showing Garry the note inside: ‘You’ve got the wrong man’, and explaining that it could only relate to Holden Wyatt. Then she showed him the logo, saying that Damon Potter had been looking into getting a tattoo of it on the day he died, and that they’d spotted it on a builder’s van the night before.