“Sorry,” Rosie said, continuing to splutter a little for effect. “I was in hospital with smoke inhalation over the weekend.” She watched Mrs. Galpin’s reaction, but there wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition, no indication that Mrs. Galpin had put two and two together and linked Rosie to the fire at Mansfield Street. All she did was tut and take Rosie’s glass from her.

“You poor thing. What on earth are you doing back at work?”

“I can’t afford to go on the sick,” Rosie said, still thinking on her feet. “I have a younger brother and sister depending on me.” She dug out her mobile and flicked to her photo gallery. “This is Sam. He’s a bright little chap, but he’s dead cheeky.”

Mrs. Galpin smiled and lowered her glasses onto her nose. “Bonny lad. Look at that grin.”

“Yeah, he gets away with murder,” Rosie said without inflection. She took the phone back and found another photo. “Here you go, this is Janelle.”

Rosie had to give Mrs. Galpin credit, she was very good at this, but Rosie was equal to the challenge, and she caught the split-second look of confusion that was immediately swallowed by something altogether darker as Mrs. Galpin realised what Rosie had done.

“What a sweetheart,” Mrs. Galpin said, picking up the tea tray.

Rosie closed down the image of Tahlia Mansoor and slipped the phone back into her pocket. “This shouldn’t take much longer,” she said, and reopened the drawer.

* * *

The final page of the file loaded another gallery of lost children. A few glared out from young offender mug shots, but most of the submissions were random snaps: school photos mingling with candids taken on the beach or at birthday parties. One of the youngest girls grinned and stuck her tongue out for the camera, the shot inappropriate for identification purposes but perhaps chosen by a parent desperate to prove they had raised her in a loving home.

Jem considered each image in turn, maximising the child’s profile on the laptop’s screen so she could give it her undivided attention. She had found the lad from Galpin’s car six pages in, but the girl didn’t feature in any of the photographs. She pushed the overbed table aside as Paula shook off another dose of morphine and reached for a glass of water with her bandaged hand.

“Hey, easy. Let me get that.” Jem helped her to drink and used a damp paper towel to wipe the sweat from her face. “Dan should be here in about half an hour,” she said, pre-empting Paula’s repeated enquiry. “You might have a bed over at Wythenshawe by then, so he’ll be able to travel with you.”

“Wythenshawe? Why am I going there?”