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‘This is it then. The moment of truth.’

Charlie breathed the words, cutting the tension in the room like a knife.

DC Roberts nodded earnestly, as did DC Malik, so without further ado, Charlie pressed ‘Play’.

The CCTV feed jumped into life, the high angle of the camera making the interior of the Exodus look strangely striking and atmospheric, like a movie set before the big fight scene.

The manager, all beard and gut, could be seen idling behind the bar, but the attention of the police officers was drawn to the stocky figure of Clint Davies hurrying over towards a table at the rear.

They watched him in silence, all struck by the weirdness of what they were witnessing, the sprightly docker going about his business utterly unaware that he was just hours away from disaster.

Seating himself, Davies looked restless, anxious even, twirling his phone around and around on the table, before moving on to toy with the beer mats.

Now, however, he looked up sharply, as another man approached the table.

They were clearly on friendly terms, Davies rising and shaking his hand, as the pair exchanged a few words.

Then his companion headed to the bar before returning to seat himself opposite the docker.

‘Bugger …’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘He’s got his bloody back to us.’

The other officers shared her frustration, craning towards the screen, as if they could somehow peer round the muscular man’s imposing shoulders to take in his face. Davies and his associate already seemed deep in conversation, chatting together like two old friends, the latter removing his jacket.

‘Is this him, do we think?’ DC Roberts asked urgently. ‘Is this our trafficker?’

‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Charlie replied.

On screen, Davies’ companion shot a quick look towards the bar, before heading briskly in that direction, ordering himself a whisky.

Frustratingly, his face was still turned away, his gaze down, and soon he was back at the table.

Now he returned his attention to the docker, as he removed something from his jacket, passing it underneath the table.

Davies received it, checked the contents, then slid the envelope into his jacket.

‘That’s it,’ DC Malik said triumphantly. ‘That’s the payment.’

‘Agreed. So this is our guy,’ Charlie concurred.

Now DC Roberts took up the baton.

‘So, what can we make out? He’s about six foot, maybe slightly more. Athletic, muscular, jeans, dark blue jacket and a t-shirt, I’m guessing it’s white from the glare. What’s that on his arm? Is it some kind of tattoo?’

‘Looks that way,’ Charlie added. ‘But hard to make out what it is from here.’

On screen, their suspect now rose, pumping Davies’ hand once more.

‘They clearly like each other,’ DC Roberts said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Partners in crime,’ DC Malik mused, a wry smile on her face.

Charlie’s focus remained glued to the screen, however, slowing the footage down as the man hurried to the doorway. Her finger tensed on the mouse, then just as the man raised his head, preparing to push out of the main door, she clicked sharply, freezing the image.

‘There we are, that’s it. That’s as good as we’re going to get.’

She was breathless, excited, staring directly at the man’s face.

It wasn’t a perfect image by any means, but they could see the narrow shape of his face, his mottled skin, the cut of his hairline, his dark black curls, the Nike logo on his t-shirt, the tattoos on his arms, one of which appeared to be a name, the other some kind of crest. This was it. This was what they been searching for.

The first sighting of the mysterious trafficker.