‘It’s the details you worry about as a mother. If someone has taken her, I wonder if they are doing the little things, the tiny things you do on automatic as a mum: brushing her teeth at night; tucking her in with a blanket; rubbing her tummy when she’s not feeling very well; stroking her head if she has a nightmare and can’t get to sleep. Angie has nightmares sometimes about wolves in her bedroom – do they know that? Does whoever have her know that she wakes in the night sometimes seeing wolves in her dreams? Will they know what to do when she cries, and what if she cries for me? Did she call for me when they took her?’

Chloe looks up from the floor of Nan’s front room. She’s been reading for the last hour, cross-legged on Nan’s Axminster, the cuttings spread out around her. Many are still folded; some are opened, scattered headlines making a path between the sofa and the carpet-covered pouffe. She reads on:

‘That last morning was so mundane, just like any other day, and yet it’s still so vivid and I don’t want to forget a single moment of it. Angie had a bath with her favourite Mr Men bubbles. I washed her hair and made it stick up on her head with the foam, just like I always do. I can still hear her giggling. I wish more than ever I could still smell those bubbles on her skin . . .’

Chloe pauses to look at the photograph of Maureen. She must be about thirty years old, but the prettiness of her has been swallowed by grief. In the photograph she clutches a screwed-up tissue in one hand, Patrick’s fingers wrapped around her other one, his head leaning on her shoulders, although it’s unclear who is propping up who. She pulls the cutting closer to her nose, to get a better look at these two. At these perfect parents. Finally, she discards that cutting for the next.

ANGIE’S DAD: ‘I’LL NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF’

ONE hundred days after the disappearance of four-year-old city girl Angela Kyle, her father has given a heartbreaking interview to this newspaper.

Reliving the nightmare of that day on 27 October 1979, Patrick Kyle recalled the last moments at the play park with his little girl before she went missing: ‘I still remember her face every time I pushed her on the swings. “Higher, Daddy!” she said – she was fearless that girl. She was sweet, funny, bright, happy, caring. She laughed and laughed as I pushed her higher.’

Mr Kyle had taken his daughter for a play at the park in Ferry Meadows. The pair had only been there around ten minutes when he realized he’d left his blue Ford Escort unlocked. He turned his back to walk the fifty yards to the car park to lock it and when he returned, Angie had vanished.