He scrolled down the page. Ten seconds. Twenty.

‘These aren’t walks, mate. Too long. They’re cycling stats.’ His phone was already in his hand. ‘She sees somewhere when she’s out on her bike in the countryside, somewhere to lock up the kid. It’s gotta be this, Joe. Gotta be.’

He phoned Elland Road, read out the Facebook details, telling them to go look at all the routes she’d taken.

‘Remote spots, abandoned buildings, places to hide someone…’ he told them, his voice fast but clear, no emotion. ‘Get everybody on it. Soon as, eh?’

Gwyn ended the call and sat back. He looked out onto the busy car park.

‘Shit round here, innit? Pokey back lanes and fields and what-not? Where d’you get a friggin’ pint of milk? There’s nowt here.’ He glanced at the cricket field with mild disgust. ‘It’s how she got Shaw’s Toyota to her house without it showing up on any CCTV. I didn’t see a single camera coming up here from the Ring Road. As for escaping from you lot, I already called you a twat, right?’

There was something boyish about the way he said it, as if it was the kindest thing he could think of in the circumstances.

‘I was trying to get a confession on tape, all the details, the lot, pretty much wrap it up before the arrest.’

‘Whereas in fact you got the shaft. Six of you. Six! Jesus Christ!’

Joe found himself cradling his face in his hands. There’d be senior officers here soon enough. And they’d have Comms officers in tow, one from each district, making sure he was kept well away from the cameras. Not that it mattered. The whole thing would already be on the internet, live action of police incompetence, late-night TV bulletins. The media escalation would be horrendous, and if they didn’t get her quickly, or if the little lad…

He squeezed his eyes shut, finding a small space within himself, enough to force the screams from his mind.

They remained there for a while in silence. Then he felt a slight pressure on his shoulder.

‘Joe? We get the kid, then we get her, right? You’ll have yourself a double murder. OK, bud?’

He gave Joe’s shoulder a shove.

‘One-sixty-six, eh?’ Joe said, blinking himself awake. ‘Isn’t that your motto?’

‘Aye, well I’m a fuckin’ gobshite, if you hadn’t noticed. A murder’s a murder, my friend.’

Merchant’s phone rang.

‘This better be good news.’

He listened, nodding, already firing up the motor.