Sam’s feeling of hope increased throughout dinner that evening with Gerry Cornwell. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and a lot of what he said was based on good, sound common sense as much as scientific evaluation–as a copper, she appreciated that. He was easy to get on with, too, with none of the patronizing attitudes or downright sexism that she had become so used to in the job. It was almost midnight by the time he dropped her off in a taxi at her flat, and Sam Jones went to bed with a belief that much of what they had discussed could be actively used to track down the children who had taken Matthew Cook–and, if they did that…She couldn’t help her mind running ahead. He could still be safe. He might be alive.

At 5 a.m., her phone rang.

As she put the receiver back in the cradle, she put away the sliver of hope she had taken to bed with her.

A body had been found.

There was something about that moment that would change Sam Jones forever. It was perhaps the destruction of the sliver of hope she had allowed herself. As she dressed, she didn’t know it, she couldn’t, but she’d never be the same again.

Within the hour, she and Gerry Cornwell were at the scene. DI Davies was speaking to the nightwatchman who had called it in, and two other officers were securing the perimeter of the crime scene. The papers would no doubt say that it was every parent’s nightmare. As Sam looked at the tiny body in front of her, she begged to differ–this was everyone’s worst nightmare. There was no denying that this was definitely Matthew Cook–his face was still identifiable from all the photographs and footage Sam had seen of him. Anyway, would it have been better if it hadn’t been him? It would still have been someone’s baby, someone’s cherished child, stoned and beaten to death like an unwanted mongrel. A deluge of rain had landed on the toddler’s body, washing away some of the dried red blood. Dr Gerry Cornwell shifted nervously from foot to foot as he looked down; he was finding it difficult to swallow and to breathe. She could see from the expression on his face that this wasn’t a theory any longer, this wasn’t a seminar topic–this was real. Sam wondered whether he had actually ever seen a dead body before; she hadn’t seen that many herself.

‘Jesus,’ he said, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. His eyes sought out Sam’s. Hers were cold and laser-like, her lips pursed. She looked as if she was contemplating what she would do when she got her hands on the little bastards responsible for this atrocity.