‘Word says he’s been frightened off, Guv. And there are more urgent issues when you look at the big picture, plus we both need sleep.’

‘Sensible. Get yourselves home, and thanks.’ She hung up, and wondered about Marcus Lee. Had he run off, and was he licking his wounds somewhere? Or had Fluke decided not to leave any more loose ends lying around? They really needed Fluke’s address.

She flipped open her phone, then closed it again. Joseph would ring as soon as he had something to tell her. There was no point bugging him, and putting the hospital staff’s back up in the process.

Nikki began to pace the floor. She felt about as happy as a newly caged tiger. She needed to be out there, doing something, not stuck in her office waiting for the damned phone to ring. She glanced at her watch. She had missed the teatime television news, and the Super had organized the Anderson family, well Mr Anderson, to make an appeal for Kerry’s safe return.

She logged on to her computer and found the television station’s catch-up channel. While she waited, she may as well find out how it went.

Five minutes later she closed it down again. Anderson had been eloquent and seemingly devastated. His wife had sat silently beside him, and for the full interview had managed to look like a frightened rabbit caught in a headlight. The Super was grave-faced and every bit a senior officer with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And why wouldn’t he be? There had been no confirmed sightings of Kerry right across the region, and nothing from any other county force.

Kerry Anderson had walked out into the night, and disappeared without trace.

Nikki wandered out to the CID office and stared at the glass evidence board with the words ‘unidentified young white male’ written on it.

Mickey Smith. He could be their Golden Child. He was young, into everything, inquisitive and lonely. He spent as much time out of his house as he could, and Nikki was pretty sure that he knew more about the Carborough and the folks who lived there than Archie Leonard.

Her gaze moved across the board and settled on a picture that caused her to shiver every time she saw it. It was of a young woman, approximately 5’8”, not skinny but certainly not overweight. Her hair was short, a non-descript mousy brown, and her eyes were evil, whatever colour that was. The name under the photograph was Frankie Doyle. The woman who had taken her daughter’s life and put it on hold, possibly forever.