Demi Cramer hung up. Kelly smiled. It was always the same with the doctor: she said about as much as she needed to; nothing more and nothing less. If she thought of anything else, Kelly knew that she’d be on the phone, no matter what time of the day or night.

Kelly googled ‘White Witch’. A person who practises magic for altruistic purposes. The definition jarred Kelly, because when she’d looked into Carla Rigg’s eyes, all she’d seen was fear and terror, not some benevolent and noble power, capable of healing and deep empathy. The young woman struck Kelly as somebody running away from power, not embracing it.

She dismissed the notion and went to find DS Will Phillips. There were no sightings recorded of a young woman alone around the area of the main roads in and out of Castlerigg for Monday morning. He’d had officers visit the campsites around the Thirlmere valley all the way down to the tip of the reservoir and to the north, all the way up to Threlkeld. None of the guesthouses, farmhouses, log cabin owners or English Heritage patrols had seen anything unusual.

The woman had vanished.

Kelly looked at her photograph again and compared it to the one found in her wallet. She studied the man: he looked around seventy-ish, thinning hair, kind eyes, broad smile and – yes – happy. Whatever Carla Rigg had been doing with him that day, she’d been contented and joyful. Perhaps it was her loving grandfather.

Her head filled with what-ifs. It was something that every detective dreaded: she had to close the file and move on. DS Kate Umshaw would alert her immediately should there be any developments to get excited about. Kelly doubted that the photograph of the young woman would make national news, but at least it had made the North West bulletin. It might be enough.

A thought took hold and she called Ted Wallis. It was half an excuse to talk to her father and half business. Semi-retired, Ted rarely visited the office in Carlisle nowadays, unless there was a post-mortem that posed a particular set of problems for the new pathologist. He was still the chief coroner for the North West, and, as such, had the final say on controversial death certificates. It was a long shot, but Ted’s memory was as sharp as any twenty-five-year-old trainee surgeon she knew.

‘I’m in a wonderful little shop in Keswick, Kelly, I thought you might need a new jacket, the sales are fabulous. There’s a Jack Wolfskin – just your colour – it’s green, and it’s reduced from almost two hundred pounds to seventy.’

‘No, really, Ted, I don’t…’