It was obvious the woman felt she was betraying her charges. Sam leaned across the table and placed her hand over that of the teacher. ‘I think we’re past all of that. Thank you. Thank you so much.’

The list contained the names of thirteen children. The problem children. The police could have got to this information eventually, but Sam knew that one respected teacher asking others was much quicker. She was already indebted to Dana Black. She looked at the list intently. Two names were marked with a red asterisk. Sam held the paper up and pointed. ‘Could you explain this? Why these two?’

Dana Black took the list from Sam. She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead to read the names.

‘Kevin Milne and Renee Smith.’ She pulled her glasses back down and placed the list on the table.

‘I’ve already checked with their teacher, dear–they weren’t at school on the day that poor little boy went missing.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sam paced back and forwards across the floor of the task-force room, gripping a lukewarm cup of black coffee, the sound of Yazz belting out somewhere in the background. She muttered as she walked. The clock on the wall showed it was ten o’clock. There was a TV mounted high up on the wall opposite her showing a trailer for a new daytime chat show that had started a few weeks ago–the hosts, Richard and Judy, were pictured, sounding and looking very concerned and saying that they would be discussing the Matthew Cook murder later that morning, so do join them. She felt that time was slipping away–she wanted this sorted before the media took over completely. DI Davies wanted to do as much background checking as he could before storming into Acacia Avenue, one of the most troubled areas in Edmonton. The avenue had the highest percentage of young adults living on benefits in the country. Single parents, suicides and state dependency were the norm. The residents were neurotic about police harassment–most of them had something to hide. If Davies was sanctioning a raid on the houses of these two kids, he wanted to be bloody sure it was watertight before he put a search warrant up to a judge. He was hunched over Sam’s desk. A single light shone down on it, highlighting every line and old acne scar on his face, and a cigarette hung from his lips. Gerry Cornwell was at his shoulder, going through the reports that he and Sam had collated overnight on Kevin Milne and Renee Smith.

‘Bloody hell,’ Davies sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk. ‘Tell me this is wrong.’ He tapped the nicotine-stained forefinger of his right hand on the paper.

‘No,’ Gerry said, standing up and stretching. ‘It’s right, I’m afraid. The information is correct.’