‘I do. I doubt I’ll ever move,’ Best said. ‘You get used to a house and it grows up around you. I have certain things I like to do and if I moved I don’t think any other house would meet those needs.’

‘Like gardening?’ James said.

‘Exactly.’ Best nodded. ‘And my darkroom. I still take film photos, even though digital is so much easier. And then there’s all the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years. It all has a place. If I moved I don’t know what I’d do with it all. Not that I need it all. There are things in that house that I acquired years ago and which have never seen the light of day since.’ He shook his head. ‘But we hold on to things, don’t we? Even when we no longer need them, or they’re taking up space we could use for something else, we don’t want to let go.’

James glanced at his dad. He caught his eye.

See, he is weird.

His dad gave a little shake of his head.

‘Another glass of wine?’ he said.

‘Are you having one?’ Best replied.

‘No. James and I went for a walk and ended up in the Feathered Egg, so I think I’ll have a cup of tea for now.’

‘I’ll join you,’ Best said. ‘Tea would be wonderful.’

‘James?’ his dad said. ‘You want tea?’

James nodded. ‘I’ll make it. Milk and sugar, Mr Best?’

‘Milk. No sugar, thank you.’

James walked towards the kitchen. When he reached the door he glanced back into the room. Best was watching him, a wistful, almost longing expression on his face.

He didn’t care what his dad said. Lonely or not, Best was weird.

Eight Years Earlier: Thursday, 1 July 2010

1

Detective Inspector Wynne did not drink much. She was aware of the cliché of the troubled, alcoholic detective, and she was also aware that, like most clichés, it was a cliché because it was, in part, true. She’d known plenty of detectives who had no problem with alcohol, but also she’d known plenty that did, and she had no intention of following in their footsteps.

Still, she could see why you would. Sometimes it would make life easier.

Make it easier to forget the girl who was still missing. Anna Crowne, five years old, taken from outside her school. Gone. Her parents were distraught, obviously, but Wynne had no answers. They had no idea where the girl was. It reminded her of the last time this had happened.

It wasn’t the only thing that day that reminded her of Maggie. A letter had come that morning, posted the day before in Wigan.

DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE: