Rosie had heard enough. “Do any of you think it’s appropriate to drag five very busy members of the local police force into your privet dispute?”

The men shook their bowed heads. The woman continued to waft her hanky about but had the sense not to remonstrate.

“In which case, we’ll leave you to reach some sort of resolution that does not result in any further ructions,” Rosie said. “If we have to come back here, we’ll arrest the lot of you. Is that understood?”

Taking their silence as acquiescence, she rejoined her colleagues.

Smiffy, the eldest on the van, clapped an arm around her shoulders. “‘Privet dispute,’” he said. “I liked that part the best, PC Jones.”

“I can’t help it, Smiffy. I am naturally punny.” Rosie checked her phone and extricated herself from his grip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gents, I have to rendezvous with a lovely young paramedic who’s got a nifty trick to teach me.”

* * *

“There you go, sweetheart. And you can put that bloody money away.”

Jem knew better than to argue with Paula. She dropped a couple of quid into the cafe’s charity box and shoved the chocolate into her pockets to leave her hands free for the drinks. Reminded of her B&Q conversation with Rosie, she tapped the box, the proceeds of which were being donated to a city-centre homeless charity.

“You ever hear of a shelter called Olly’s, Paula?”

Paula’s vigorous wiping of the counter became slow, contemplative circles. “No, I haven’t. Is it local?”

“I think so, but I’ve never heard of it either.” Making a snap decision, Jem wrote “Tahlia Mansoor” on a blank section of the takeaway menu. All sorts of gossip passed through the small cafe, and Paula was perfectly placed to eavesdrop. What she didn’t know about local affairs probably wasn’t worth knowing. Jem slid the menu across the countertop. “Police are looking for this lass, and that shelter was mentioned as a possible place of safety for her. She’s fourteen, mixed race, been missing from home for a couple of weeks. Can you keep your ear to the ground for me?”

“Of course I can, love.” Paula folded her dishcloth into a neat square. She had mild OCD when it came to cleanliness and tidiness. “Was that you, out on your own with the lad by the river the other night?”

“Aye. Did one of the papers give my name?”

“No, I just bloody knew it. I told Dan as much. ‘That’ll have been our Jem,’ I said, and he bet me fifty pence I was talking shite.”