Every day the media gathered at both ends of the lane, but the scene was well guarded, with the mobile crime unit blocking the top end. One or two hardy reporters had tried sneaking across the fields to take photographs, but the vigilant eyes of the officers guarding the inner scene, the immediate area in which the body had been found, had spotted them in time. Even so, a few long-distance shots had appeared, the kind that have to be published with a circle added to pinpoint where the crime happened. Desperate for any sort of crime-scene image, one less reputable newspaper had even published a shot of a similar spot on a different road and claimed it as the place where the battered and broken body of the young girl was discovered. Both the cyclist who had found the body, Roger Stanford, and the Ketteridges on the nearest farm had come under media siege at one point or another. As Stanford seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown and Mrs. Ketteridge lived in fear of losing her baby, the local police had seen all the interlopers off and posted guards around the farm and Stanford’s house.

The investigation had naturally slowed down over the weekend, especially as the budget allowed for little or no overtime. In the meantime, information wasn’t exactly pouring in. The CSIs had made no more headway and Jazz Singh had done about as much as she could with the DNA.

Late that morning, Gerry was sitting at her computer in the squad room when the telephone rang. She picked up the handset and announced her rank and name. It was one of the community support officers working the Bradham Lane case, calling from the mobile crime scene unit. “Sorry to bother you, DC Masterson,” she said, “but I’ve got a caller on the hotline who insists on speaking to the person in charge of the investigation.”

“That would be DI Cabbot,” said Gerry. “Or DCI Banks.”

“They’re not around. I rang you because the caller sounds a bit spooked. Young. Can I put her through? Maybe you could talk to her?”

“Put her through.”

She waited a few moments, and a small, scared voice came on the line. “Hello? Hello? Do you know about the girl in Bradham Lane, the one whose picture was on telly?”

“I’m DC Masterson,” said Gerry. “And I’m working on the case. Do you know who she is? Can you help us?”

“I don’t know. Is the drawing a good likeness? Have you actually seen her?”

“I was there when she was found,” Gerry said. It was more or less true. “Yes, I saw her. It’s a good likeness.”

“It is her, isn’t it? Was she, I mean . . . ?”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. Yes. It’s just that she was my best friend. It’s her. It looks like her. I haven’t seen her for days. And they . . .”