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through the busy streets, keeping the grey stone city walls to their left and soon they reached Picklegate Bar, one of the four medieval gates that guarded the old city. Centuries ago the heads of traitors were displayed on top of the city gates, Joe thought as he watched it in his rear view mirror. You could still see the spikes there if you looked carefully enough.
    They turned on to the main road out to the southern suburbs and travelled in silence until they reached the suburb of Pickby, an affluent area of detached houses, near to the place where criminals had once met their death at the end of the hangman’s rope. That particular site was now a racecourse which Joe supposed was progress of a sort. Emily herself lived here, surrounded by Eborby’s professional classes.
    Jack Hawkes lived in a detached Edwardian villa set in a large, neat garden. It had gables, gleaming paintwork and a glossy oak front door set with elaborate stained-glass windows. A desirable residence. Emily pressed the doorbell and waited.
    Hawkes opened the door; he had a worried frown on his tanned face. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said humbly as he stood aside to let them in. He checked outside before he closed the door, as though he was making sure nobody was watching.
    He led them through to a large drawing room, immaculate in shades of blue with a fancy plaster cornice and a large crystal chandelier hanging from an equally fancy ceiling rose.
    Emily sat down heavily on the sofa without waiting to be invited. ‘So what’s your problem, Mr Hawkes?’
    He looked from one to the other, as though he was making a decision. ‘My wife’s disappeared.’
    â€˜She arranged to meet me but she never turned up.’
    â€˜I know. She thought it might be a good idea to ask your advice but she changed her mind.’
    â€˜Why?’
    Hawkes hesitated. ‘My stepdaughter’s been kidnapped.’ He paused to let the words sink in. ‘The kidnapper told us not to tell the police so . . .’
    â€˜Don’t worry, we can do discreet.’ Joe had been standing there but now he sat down beside Emily, fearing that this was going to be a long story. ‘You’d better start from the beginning.’
    Hawkes inhaled deeply. ‘My wife picked Daisy up from school yesterday and they went to the playground in the local park on the way home.’
    â€˜Is that Lovett Road Park?’ asked Emily, the local.
    â€˜I think so. She just said the park but . . .’
    â€˜What happened?’ Emily was leaning forward now with professional interest, all resentment gone.
    â€˜Daisy – that’s her little girl – was playing on the swings or . . . Anyway, Melanie had a phone call from her boss and turned her back for a minute and . . . and when she turned round Daisy wasn’t there. She rushed round asking people if they’d seen her but nobody had. Anyway, while she was out – before she’d even called me to tell me what had happened – I had a phone call from someone who said they had Daisy.’
    â€˜Man or woman?’ Joe asked.
    â€˜I couldn’t tell. The voice was disguised through one of those electronic things.’
    â€˜Go on.’ Joe caught Emily’s eye. If this was a case of kidnapping they’d have to hand it over to a specialist team, people more used to delicate negotiations than themselves. There’d be a news blackout to arrange and other things to be set in motion. But first they needed the facts.
    â€˜They asked for ten grand in cash.’
    â€˜And what happened?’
    â€˜I got the money.’
    â€˜Where from? Your bank?’
    â€˜Er, no. From a business associate who owed me money.’
    â€˜Name?’ Emily was leaning forward, notebook at the ready.
    â€˜Patrick Creeny. He’s been working with me on the Boothgate House project.’
    â€˜Havenby Hall?’
    â€˜Boothgate House. We’re hoping people