Sleep eluded him. He had a huge workload that he was paying far too little attention to, and his personal life was falling to pieces. After three or four hours thinking about it, tossing and turning, he put on a bathrobe and tiptoed to his daughter’s room. There must be some clues in there to her whereabouts. He eased open the handle, and closed the door behind him before putting on the light. Going back to first principles, he’d know how far she could have got if he knew which of her possessions were missing. The room had been tidied up since he’d last seen it. The mattress was made up with fresh sheets and pillow cases. The bin had been emptied. There was a small metal chest of drawers by the window, which had a certain household notoriety. Stick-on ‘no entry’ signs were all over it, the drawers locked. There would be answers in there for sure, but he would leave that until last. He peered into her wardrobe, standing on tiptoe to examine the top shelf. There were women’s magazines, blouses, skirts, jeans, a few hats and a collection of bags.

The trouble was that he had never noticed her clothing, luggage or even her phone. He had no idea what might be missing. Mel had claimed, after helping him yet again to find his reading specs, that he was so unobservant that it was a joke him becoming a detective. Mel was the opposite. She would know which were Vanessa’s favourite clothes and bags, but as they barely cooperated about sharing the same kettle, doing an exact inventory of their daughter’s possessions would be a big step. While lying awake, he had conceded some of Mel’s points about the dangers of officially reporting her missing, particularly the involvement of the press. There was a middle way. He could trace her phone and her bank cards on the quiet. That could provide reassurance without a huge fuss. Better still, he should get a colleague to do it. It wouldn’t do to be discovered working on a personal project when he had a double murder to investigate, though heaven knew Radar Dobbs was a pretty slack boss.

He knew just the person who could help them. Not his kind of policeman, but a known quantity. DC Carl Hoskins. He’d ring him first thing.

Newly enthusiastic about finding his daughter, DI John Perry set about using a nail file to pick the locks on the chest of drawers. The bottom drawer gave in easily. Inside were various bits of make-up, some pills he didn’t recognise in a foil packet, and a small plastic bag with a dozen mauve tablets in it. Certainly illegal. He blinked at the foolishness of youth. The top drawer took longer but eventually relented, though he was sure it would never be able to be locked again. There were two large packets of condoms and various feminine hygiene items. The second drawer held firm, and he was forced to retreat to the kitchen in search of a screwdriver. When he finally broke the lock, at 4.37 a.m., he found the drawer contained only one thing, a bulky plastic bag. Inside it was a brown curly wig.