Three men, one woman. The small room was one of the few in the building with a light on. They were staring at an enlarged Google Earth map showing an area of open country. It was 3.30 a.m.
Someone came in without knocking. ‘Guv – we’ve got a red.’
The officer whistled. ‘Where is he?’
The man who had come in bent over to the screen of the laptop. ‘Not that far away from where he last showed up.’ He scrolled, clicked, enlarged. Homed in.
‘This is still very rural. Now – he’s within this area … two square miles or so of this point.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
They scrolled down. Fields. Hedges. More fields. Ditches. A farm. A cluster of buildings and a church marking a village. Big house and garden next to the church. Three more houses. Two footpaths, one B-road, one lane. One pond.
‘Signal’s dead.’
‘Shit.’
They stood about in silence, staring at the computer screen and the map as if they might come alive and tell them what was happening, what they should do.
‘I’m getting Craig out of bed,’ the DI said.
‘He won’t thank you.’
But the Super was awake, making tea in his Ealing kitchen because his mind was crowded with problems, none of which had straightforward solutions, and he had indigestion after a late curry. He listened, drinking his tea too hot. Thought for half a minute while the DI was silent, knowing he would get a clear and coherent set of orders.
‘Right. Serrailler’s safety is now first priority. I’m on my way, and meanwhile, here’s what we do.’