There is no way I can get into the old sorting office. Even if I was fifteen years old I still don’t think I’d be able to make it over the barbed-wire fence, even with a leg-up, and the double gates are securely padlocked. I wasn’t going to come here, not after I called DS Forbes this morning, but I wanted to get a glimpse inside, just to set my mind at rest. Cattle Market Road is a busy street, with cars whizzing backwards and forwards, but most of the shops are boarded up, long since abandoned. There is a red sign affixed to some railings just outside the gates warning the general public that it’s private property. The sorting office is clearly visible through the grey metal bars of the gates. It looks even bleaker from here than it did from the train station opposite. DS Forbes wasn’t joking about it being open to the elements. There are no longer any walls or partitions inside, just a series of concrete columns separating one floor from the next. Even if you could get over the barbed wire why would you shelter here? I’ve spent months wondering where I’d go if I was sleeping rough. I’d want to squirrel myself away from the world so I wouldn’t worry about being robbed or attacked as I slept. I’d go to a women’s shelter if I could or, if I didn’t want to be found, I’d settle down for the night in a shed in the allotments off Talbot Road and take my belongings with me each morning to avoid discovery. We’ve already checked the allotments, and posted up signs in BS4 and BS3 asking people to check their sheds. We’ve searched everywhere and anywhere we could think of – the river-bank near Marks & Spencer at Avonmeads, the local parks, the Downs. Everywhere.

Well, not everywhere. Or we’d have found him.

I look down at the notebook in my hands and Billy’s thick, black scrawl:

– Bristol T M (train?)

– The Arches

– Avonmouth