He was an older man, maybe around Jim’s age, possibly a little younger. He wore a grey suit that was smart but far from fashionable, unbuttoned at the front so as not to encumber a protuberant stomach that had presumably been a lot smaller when the jacket first left the tailor’s. He was tall and broad in the shoulders, a little jowly about the jawline, but surprisingly light on his feet, as proven by his near-silent approach.

He flashed a warrant card, at which point Jasmine could have kicked herself. Jim kept going on about hiring her because cops and ex-cops were so obvious to the trained eye. This proved her training was still in its early stages.

‘Detective Sergeant McDade,’ he said.

Jasmine felt a cold dread for a moment as she briefly considered the possibility that he was the official bearer of bad news, but she just as quickly dismissed it. They wouldn’t send a cop to her, but to Jim’s ex-wife or to Angela. Plus, he wouldn’t be making light of anything upon his entrance.

‘I believe you made a missing-person report? Your uncle?’

She stared blankly at him in disbelief, a little thrown that such a senior officer would be looking into it, and so soon after her being given short (but polite) shrift at the station.

McDade seemed to interpret this as confusion.

‘You are Jasmine Sharp, aren’t you?’ he checked.

‘Yes. Sorry, I just … Sergeant Collins didn’t give me the impression that I should expect much of a response.’

McDade nodded as if to say fair enough.

‘Aye, ordinarily. But I saw the report flash up and I recognised the name. I checked, and when it turned out it was the same Jim Sharp, I thought I’d better look into it. I worked with him, you see. Not often. Different divisions, but our paths crossed. Sergeant Collins said you reported that it was uncharacteristic for him to drop off the radar, and from what I knew of him, I’d concur.’

Jasmine felt a glimmer of relief that her report was being taken seriously by the professionals, diluted within a greater volume of anxiety at this confirmation that the professionals considered it a matter they ought to be taking seriously.

McDade pulled up a chair and sat opposite, scribbling in a notebook as he got her to go over the details again for him. Every time he asked her a question, even the clarification of a minor point, he fixed her with a penetrating stare that seemed to look right inside her. It almost made her want to make up more dramatic details in case he concluded that she was wasting police time. She could easily imagine suspects wilting under that gaze during interview. She wondered how many years on the job it took to develop, while the actor in her wondered how difficult it might be to fake.