‘And yet she’s gone,’ Baarda said.

Connie folded her arms and leaned against a lamppost, face turned towards the stars.

‘People disappear every day. They can’t cope with the stress of their job or discover they’ve got a terrible illness. They suddenly see their face in the mirror and decide they hate themselves. I could give you a thousand reasons. I may not be able to tell you yet why Elspeth’s gone, but I can tell you that no one forced her into a car here against her will.’

‘Because she didn’t scream?’ Baarda asked. ‘They might have been holding a knife to her throat or a gun to her back. Silence isn’t necessarily indicative of acquiescence.’

‘It’s not,’ Connie said, pointing at him. ‘But modern media’s done us a few favours that have changed our behaviour. Women in particular understand that once you climb into a car with an assailant, you’ve given away the power. You’ll most likely be raped, probably killed after that. Most women would risk a bullet or a knife wound rather than get into a car, well aware that the journey would likely be their last.’

‘And if her abductor had threatened her children? Not difficult to do – say their names, ages, the home address, perhaps their school. What mother wouldn’t comply to protect her offspring?’

‘Offspring?’

‘Children,’ Baarda said.

‘I know what it means,’ she said. ‘It’s just kind of clinical. But I agree, that’s a much more effective way to manipulate a woman. Her abductor would have to have been stalking her for some time. If it were me, I’d have tried to leave a trail. Dropped my bag, slipped off my watch or a ring, tripped and left blood droplets on the ground. Anything to say I was here and now I’m gone. I’m in danger. I take it the area’s been forensically searched?’

‘Apparently so. Nothing found,’ Baarda said. ‘So what’s your competing theory?’

‘That you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Why threaten a woman and make her skittish when you can present yourself in a perfectly believable way? Fake IDs are easy to get hold of – pretend to be a police officer. Tell her that she’s needed at the scene of an accident, for example. Get her out of the city into a dead-end road. From there, it’s pretty simple.’

‘Her car hasn’t been found,’ Baarda noted.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something, what are we doing here?’

Baarda gave a fleeting smile and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Police work,’ he said.

‘I’m a forensic psychologist. I help work up profiles on serial killers. Yet here I am, paid for at the taxpayers’ expense. You’ve even been drafted up here out of London.’