Police Constable Sam Jones knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the tear-stained faces of the small group of neighbours. They were huddled outside the only door on the landing that was clean and freshly painted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grief etched on the face of the hardened police officer guarding the door.

‘Any news of the little boy?’ asked a small, fat woman with greying black hair in a pigtail that hung halfway down her back. WPC Sam Jones stared at the lady’s red sari and shook her head. The neighbourhood had been united by sorrow. A body had not yet been found but, rightly or wrongly, all hope was gone. Matthew Cook had been missing for far too long–even the police thought so.

Sam’s clothes were stained and grubby. She’d been out all night helping to search the area around Edmonton Green bus station, until there wasn’t an alleyway, an empty shop doorway, or a bin that they hadn’t raked through. The bus station was reasonably central, but hardly any of the CCTV worked, and the huge numbers of people seemed more used to closing their eyes to everything and everyone around them rather than actually to noticing things. Usually they wouldn’t talk to the police at all, but a missing child had opened their mouths a little–they just didn’t have anything to say. The superintendent had taken her off the search and ordered her to the family home to be with the mother. WPC Jones felt her heart crumble to dust, more with apprehension than cold–just because she was a woman didn’t mean she was equipped to deal with this. In fact, she knew that she wasn’t.

‘WELCOME’ was printed in dull green letters on the doormat. Sam wiped her feet and rang the bell. The door was opened by a red-eyed young woman.

‘Are you Donna Cook?’ she asked. ‘I’m WPC Sam Jones.’

The young woman ignored the outstretched hand and opened the door just wide enough for Sam to squeeze through. They were trying to keep their grief private, but there was a thin line between the concerned people outside and the way they preyed like vultures on what was happening. ‘No, I’m not Donna. I’m a friend…Angie Bell,’ the young woman stuttered.

Sam recognized the name. Angie’s short brown hair was knotted and unkempt, egg stained her pink Reebok T-shirt and the tracksuit bottoms she wore had been slept in. Angie Bell’s head shook continuously, as if trying to deny the tragedy. ‘Donna’s in her bedroom. The doctors had to sedate her. She’s been pulling her hair out by the roots since he’s gone missing.’