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Howard Smallwood lived in a quiet street off the Braunston Road — not that any streets in Oakham were particularly lively at this time on a Sunday night.
Caroline put her hand in her pocket and pulled out his business card again, looking at the number to make sure she’d got it right. She had. Number six. Third house up on the right.
As she approached, she wondered if she should wait for her colleagues, but she knew time was of the essence. There was no sign of any police cars — nor of Dexter. She looked at her watch. There was no way he’d be here for a little while yet.
The fact the light was on meant Smallwood was likely still at home. She could wait here — should wait here — and keep an eye on the house until backup arrived. But at the same time she felt the unavoidable urge to go
