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‘And good luck. I hope your daughter is returned to you soon. I’m sure she will be.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Mr Best.’

Sandra closed the door. She turned to James and wrapped her arms around him.

‘James,’ she said. ‘I want to be angry at you, but I can’t. But don’t you ever do that again. I can’t go through it. Promise?’

James looked at her through bleary eyes. ‘Promise,’ he mumbled.

Martin slipped an arm around him.

‘I’ll put him to bed,’ he said. ‘We can deal with this in the morning.’

6

When James was upstairs – shoes off but still wearing the rest of his clothes – Martin went downstairs. Sandra was on her mobile. He sat next to her on the couch and called DI Wynne.

‘No need to come,’ Martin said. ‘He’s here.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Wynne said.

‘Sorry. For wasting your time.’

‘That’s fine. Totally understandable in the circumstances. Call any time you need.’

Sandra hung up. ‘That was Marcia. Andy’s mum. Apparently he got home and tried to sneak upstairs without anyone noticing. He was drunk too. She got the story out of him – some older boys bought them some cider or something and they went to drink it in the park.’

‘The cinema guy said they were at the film.’

‘Sounds like they had the bright idea to get drunk on the way home.’

‘I’ll talk to him in the morning,’ Martin said. ‘But honestly, for now I’m just glad he’s home.’

‘Me too,’ Sandra said. She moved closer to him and he put his arm around her. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said. ‘How are we going to get through this?’

Martin didn’t answer for a while.

‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘I really don’t know.’

Twelve Years Earlier, 30 July 2006

1

DI Wynne scrolled through her contacts. She hated making this kind of call, hated knowing that the recipient might think she had good news, and would be disappointed when she told them that no, there were no new leads.

But she had to call Maggie’s parents. She couldn’t leave them in the dark; even though she had nothing specific to share, people wanted to be kept in the loop – as far as she could – about the investigation.

And she had nothing. Maggie was either dead, or she had been abducted and was a prisoner somewhere – and it could be anywhere – or she had been trafficked, in which case she could be anywhere in the world, working most likely in the sex trade, watched day and night, with no documents and no money. She’d be given ready access to drugs and alcohol and, when she was no longer of value, she’d be killed and disposed of, dumped in a lake or river, buried in a forest or desert, or thrown into an incinerator. No one would miss her. No one would report her absence to the police, and even if they did, the police wouldn’t be able to do anything. They would have no idea who she was.

Martin Cooper answered on the second ring.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘DI Wynne?’

She was stung by the hope in his voice.

‘Just a routine call, I’m afraid,’ Wynne said. ‘To let you know we are still pursuing all avenues as thoroughly as we can. And to answer any questions you might have.’

‘I don’t have any.’ His voice was flat. ‘But thank you for checking in.’