She, on the other hand, had been up since dawn. She had finally fallen asleep around two a.m., lying on the pile of documents she had found amongst Adam’s things. But when she had turned over, they had rustled and woken her up. The sun had been shining and the pain in her head had eased. For two and a half seconds it was a promising start to the day.

And then.

Adam is gone.

She had drawn her knees into herself and listened to the birds outside her window. No tears. But a space as wide and as empty as a desert plain.

Five minutes. Ten. An hour. And then she had crawled out of bed, put on her clothes and forced herself to drive to work.

* * *

Five decades after the police statements about Bridget Sawyer’s disappearance had been taken, the Doll & Fancy Dress Emporium was still standing on the corner of The Avenue. Built at the start of the postwar economic boom, the shop was now faded, the paint on its signage flaking and cracked.

Wildeve didn’t trust French with Adam’s secrets, but she owed him some explanation, and offered the scantest of details about the shop owner who had gone missing fifty-two years earlier.

“Bridget Sawyer. Known as Birdie. Forty-six. One day she was there, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, the next she had vanished into thin air. Her purse and keys were gone. She left behind a teenager, a home, a business.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Clutching at straws, though, isn’t it?” But he hadn’t challenged her.

It was past nine, but there was no sign of life and the shop was shut up. She pushed gently against the door, but it was locked so she knocked on the glass.

French watched her, swigging from a bottle of Lucozade. “Not in,” he said.

“Wow, thanks. I’d never have guessed.”

She surveyed the street. The early-morning commuters had long gone, and it was quiet, families enjoying a lie-in during the summer holidays or away on their annual break. All except the postman, who was walking up the road toward them.

“Doesn’t open until twelve, sometimes later,” he said. He smiled at her, but it lacked commitment. She looked away, feeling awkward, although she couldn’t explain why.

“Funny sort of a business,” said French. “Missing half the day’s trade.”

The postman shifted the bag to his other shoulder. “Most of his business is online, I gather,” he said. “Shop’s just a base for him, I reckon. He’s an old guy. Has the occasional customer, but not so you’d notice.”

“It’s Trefor Lovell’s place, right?” said Wildeve.

The postman waved a couple of letters at her. “One and the same.” He leaned forward and posted them through the shop’s letter box, then raised a hand in farewell. “Good luck.”

Wildeve and French exchanged a glance.