She paused to catch her breath. She was well outside her comfort zone, but she didn’t let it show. ‘I’d like to introduce you, firstly to Detective Sergeant Raymond Lewis, who is seated to my right, and to Lottie’s parents, Dale and Megan Weller, who are seated to my left. I intend to update you all on the case, and then allow you the opportunity to ask any questions. I would advise you, however, that there may be some matters on which I am unable to comment for operational reasons.’ This was a bluff. Kesey had very little to share. The briefing was a fishing exercise more than anything else. A fishing exercise with very little bait. But nobody needed to know that, not the parents, not the press, not the chief super, and especially not the perpetrator, should they be watching the Welsh evening news.

Kesey waited for what she considered the inevitable murmurs of discontent to gradually dissipate before continuing, her tone rising an octave, insistent, demanding to be heard. ‘We’re here to raise awareness of the disappearance of Lottie Weller, a five-year-old little girl who was taken from her mother’s home address in Picton Street, Caerystwyth, sometime between the hours of 2.30 a.m. and 7.10 a.m. on the nineteenth of this month. She has now been missing for three days. A team of officers are actively conducting relevant investigations as we speak. It is imperative that we find Lottie sooner rather than later. I would ask that you assist me in achieving that outcome.’

A dishevelled local journalist with wild, receding hair tinged with grey, and wearing a badly creased cotton jacket with a flower in the lapel, raised a hand in the air like a child in a classroom. ‘Okay, so how much progress have you made? As you said, three days have passed. That’s a long time in investigative terms. Have you identified any suspects? Surely it’s about time you did.’

Kesey shuffled her notes, buying time, gathering her thoughts. ‘Investigations are ongoing. We’re following several relevant leads. At this stage, I can’t say any more than that.’

The journalist wasn’t inclined to give up easily. ‘What sort of enquiries?’

Kesey chose not to answer. What was the point of responding when you had nothing worthwhile to say? She turned to Lewis and nodded. ‘If you could switch the laptop on now, please, Ray.’

Lewis flicked a switch, projecting a large, ten-by-six-foot colour image of Lottie’s smiling face on the white-painted wall to the side of the force logo. Kesey looked around the room, weighing up the photo’s emotional impact. The attendant journalists were paying close attention. It seemed the picture had had the desired effect. It was time to drive home her advantage, time to gain their co-operation.

‘As you can all see, Lottie has shoulder-length, slightly curly, pale-yellow hair, light-blue eyes and prominent freckles on both cheeks. She is of slim build, weighing approximately forty pounds or eighteen kilos, and is approximately forty-two inches or one hundred and seven centimetres tall. In summary, Lottie is an average, happy five-year-old girl with good communicative skills, who’s going to be missing her mother. She speaks both English and Welsh.’ Kesey paused to maximise the impact of her statement, and then continued, acutely aware that Megan had started crying into her hands, her head bowed. ‘If you could display the second slide now, please, Ray.’