‘It’s all over social media. Photos of Lottie, people discussing who could have taken her, one nutter was even suggesting it’s a case of alien abduction. What the fuck’s that about?’

‘Are you saying I should leave the radio for a bit?’

‘I’ll leave that stuff to you and the top brass, boss. It’s well above my pay grade.’

She pointed towards his empty pint. ‘Do you want another one before we head off?’

He pushed his glass across the table. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’

‘I’ll have a quiet word with the head teacher. Let’s see what she makes of this Heath character. It can’t do any harm to ask.’

Lewis nodded. ‘Cheers, Laura, that makes me feel a little better. As I said, there’s something about the bloke that rings alarm bells. If he gives me even the slightest excuse, I’ll be all over him like a rash. My nonce radar’s doing somersaults.’

‘Don’t get fixated on the man, Ray. You’ve been wrong before. None of us are infallible, not even you.’

His expression darkened. ‘Okay, so I’ve fucked up once or twice. I’ll give you that much. But I’m right this time. And I’ll prove it too. You wait and see.’

31

Megan screamed when she first opened the large brown envelope. She emitted a long piercing cry and then collapsed to the hall tiles as her legs gave way. She sat, panting hard, allowing the wall to support her weight, with the photographs held tightly in a trembling hand. She looked at them in turn, choking on her tears, filled with dejected horror, but unable to look away.

There were five photos. Five large, black and white images of Lottie prone on a wooden floor stained with intermingling bodily fluids. The bars, those dark metal bars, a clear plastic tube inserted into Lottie’s mouth, and held in place by metallic plastic tape wrapped around her poor head and face. Each photo was no less awful than the other. They were taken from different angles, as if the photographer had repositioned himself for each terrible shot.

Megan wept as she forced herself to study them, searching for even the slightest clue as to the location, looking for something familiar. But there was nothing that stood out. Nothing that gave her even the slightest hope.

Megan threw up as she dragged herself to her feet. She bent over, spitting acidic vomit, before standing. She hurried to the kitchen on unsteady legs, to where her mobile was charging on a shelf. She placed the photographs face down on the oak table, washed her mouth out at the sink, and then dialled Raymond Lewis’s number, which was stored in her phone from the last time she’d called him.

Megan tapped a foot against the floor as she waited, seconds seeming like minutes. Come on, Ray. Answer the damned thing, come on, come on. You said ring any time, any time at all. Come on, detective, where the hell are you?

‘DS Lewis, how can I help you?’