‘Shut the door.’ His craggy face looked even more war-torn than usual.

Nikki’s jaw jutted forward. ‘What’s happened, sir?’

‘Some ramblers walking the sea-bank found a mobile phone. They also found this.’ The Super placed an evidence bag on the desk.

‘What is it?’ asked Nikki, peering through the clear plastic.

‘A light meter.’ Joseph said sombrely. ‘Used by serious photographers.’

‘A photographer like Kerry?’

The Super ran a meaty hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think there’s too much doubt about that. Most happy snappers are all digital these days.’ He paused. ‘But we have one piece of good luck here. Although the phone was damaged, the lab reckon they will be able to retrieve information from it.’

‘Right. So we now know she’s been abducted.’ Nikki drew in a deep breath. ‘It’s time to get the official wheels turning.’

The Super held up his hand. ‘Yes, but before we open the floodgates, Inspector, I want to know, one hundred per cent, that the phone belonged to her.’

‘It has to be hers!’ exploded Nikki. ‘Her friends say she often goes up the sea-bank, either taking photos or sky watching with her little “mate”, Kris. And she was last seen wearing hiking boots, what more do you want?’

‘Confirmation.’ said the Super patiently.

‘Sir! You know the time scale for finding abductees. The first twenty-four hours are crucial! And we’ve already lost valuable hours—’

The superintendent reached for the ringing phone. ‘It’s the lab.’ He muttered holding his hand over the mouthpiece. After a few short words, he hung up and looked from her to Joseph. ‘It’s Kerry Anderson’s, alright. The last message she received, and the last call she made, were both to and from the same person.’

‘Don’t tell me …’ Nikki was already making for the door, ‘… Kris Brown.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE WORD ‘VILLAGE’ conjures up a certain rural quaintness, but as Nikki and Joseph drove into Barnby Eaudyke, they found nothing of the sort. The cottages and houses were scattered in meagre clusters, and everyone of them edged the vast arable fields that ran all the way down to the marsh. The narrow lane that served as the main road was clogged with mud spewed up from the tractor tyres, and chickens roamed at will across the pockedmarked asphalt.

The Brown’s cottage sat a little way back from the road. The front garden had mainly been given over to a shingle car parking area and turning space, and the cottage itself, although not exactly ramshackle, could have used a hearty dose of TLC.

‘Hardly chocolate box, is it?’ said Joseph, looking at the weather-bleached paintwork.

‘What do you expect!’ Nikki snorted. ‘These are farm worker’s places. And this is the Fens, not the cosy Cotswolds. They work God-awful hours to just about scrape an existence. So, along with the east wind and the North Sea—’

‘Okay, okay, I get the picture.’