Paula straightened up in her seat and started the engine. She’d stop off at Skenfrith Street on her way home and put a rocket up the uniforms. Get them to take Bev’s disappearance seriously, not just stick it on the back burner and hope it would simmer away to nothing.

‘It’s like the bloody Marie Celeste in here,’ she said aloud as she tried to find someone to direct her to the duty inspector’s office. She ended up descending to the custody suite in the basement in the hope of finding signs of life. A radio was playing softly, a low mutter that sounded like sport commentary. The custody sergeant, a craggy-faced tough in his thirties, looked up from his paperwork and raised his eyebrows.

‘Have you lost your way?’ He stood up, wary but not unfriendly. ‘We’ve not met, have we?’

‘DS Paula McIntyre. I’m the new face on DCI Fielding’s firm. I was looking for the duty inspector, but there doesn’t seem to be anybody about upstairs.’

He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Are you not from round here?’

‘I’ve lived in Bradfield all my adult life. Why? What’s so special about Skenfrith Street? Don’t you do crime outside school hours?’ Paula kept her tone light, but she wished Sergeant Banter would cut to the chase.

‘Bradfield Victoria are playing Manchester United at home. Every warm body is at the game, in case of any crowd trouble. Including the duty inspector.’

‘Are they expecting crowd trouble?’

This time, he laughed properly. ‘Nay, lass. But they’re expecting a bloody good game of football. Now, is there owt I can help you with?’

Paula shook her head. Whatever the uniform branch were doing about Bev Andrews’ disappearance, they clearly weren’t doing it tonight. ‘I’ll speak to them in the morning. I hope you have a quiet night,’ she added on her way out.

‘Fat chance. There’ll be drunks galore later, whatever the scoreline is.’

There was nothing for it but to go home empty-handed and see how Elinor was getting on with Torin. Maybe the boy would have thought of something that might open up a more promising line of inquiry. Something that would command attention more than a bloody good game of football.

21

There must be an algorithm that described the twist in the space-time continuum that occurred when a teenage boy was in the room, Paula thought, pausing on the threshold of her living room. Adolescent lads seemed to occupy a space out of all proportion to their actual size. The room usually seemed spacious when it was only occupied by herself and Elinor. It didn’t even feel crowded when they had friends round. But with Torin sprawled on the sofa, legs stretched across the rug, shirt untucked and tie at half mast, it seemed to have shrunk. She’d have to find a Doctor Who geek and ask.