Beaming with pride, Scout and Stan went off to her room.

‘When are you coming back?’ Wren said.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Maybe the day after.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Because this would be off the book.’

There was an A4-sized file in her hand. Small and thin and green. She held it out to me but I made no attempt to take it.

‘Mispers,’ Wren said.

‘What?’

‘I was looking for missing persons, remember? Missing girls from twenty years ago.’ A glint in her eye. ‘You asked me. Remember?’

I nearly laughed out loud. A spasm of pain shot through my lower back.

‘It’s over,’ I said. ‘Case closed. Murders solved. The perp convicted. They got their killer, didn’t they?’

Ian Peck, aka Bob the Butcher, was standing up for all the murders. Not just Mallory. Not just the one he actually did, but also the murders of Hugo Buck, Adam Jones and Guy ‘Piggy’ Philips. Peck was an official serial killer, a superstar of real-life crime. Bob the Butcher’s followers were still lighting up the social network sites.

I suddenly felt somewhere beyond exhausted.

‘I heard Whitestone made DCI,’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ Wren said. ‘And she deserves it.’

‘And they’re giving Mallory a posthumous QPM.’

‘And Scarlet Bush has got a book out called Pigslayer.’

‘A book? Already?’

‘Pigslayer is an e-book, Grandad.’ She flicked her fingers. ‘They do ’em fast. Haven’t read it myself. The chief super’s happy. Looks like everybody in our team is going up at least one pay grade. While you’re at home with your busted back feeling sorry for yourself.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s over,’ I repeated.

‘No,’ Wren said. ‘It’s only just starting. Because there are still the missing.’

‘You know how many people go missing in this country?’ I said. ‘Every single day of the year?’

‘Yes,’ Wren said. ‘One every three minutes. Most of them young. Many of them female. Girls running away from care homes. Girls who are being abused by dear old mum’s brand-new boyfriend. Girls with drug problems, drink problems and body issues. Self-harmers and addicts of every kind. The waifs and strays. The unlucky ones who fall through the net – who fall through all the nets. Girls who are pregnant. Girls who think they are in love. Girls whose parents are religious fanatics who think they are whores if they listen to pop music.’

‘That just about covers it,’ I said.

‘You know how many girls went missing in the country that year, 1988, the year we’re looking at?’

I was silent for a moment.

‘I guess it was a lot,’ I said.

‘You wouldn’t believe how many.’

‘And you’re going to find them all, are you, Edie? Avenge them all? Make it right?’