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Sometimes with either parent or an older girl. Any permutation. Sometimes alone. From birth to six years old. Ageing only so far and no further.
    All photos: originals, blow-ups, scans. Snipped and grafted, placed in images both real and imaginary, collages of memory and remembrance, wish fulfilment and fantasy.
    And among the photos, newspaper clippings. Preserved and yellowing, headlines screaming, riffing on the same theme:
    Boy Vanishes without Trace
    No Clues in Hunt for Missing Six-Year-Old
    Tragic David – Why Did No One See Him?
    Against the far wall, folders and box files, all labelled:
    Police Reports
    Missing Persons Reports
    Results of Public Appeals
    Whole housing estates contained within: dead ends, cul-de-sacs, blind alleys, all round the houses, round in circles, no entries.
    Then back to the photos. An evolutionary pictorial life. Birth and home. School. Family and friends. David on holiday in Dorset, in France. Collages of memory and remembrance. David in Disneyland, on colour-supplement white-sand paradise beaches. Collages of wish fulfilment and fantasy.
    Donovan panted, looked at the other two people in the room.
    Sharkey seemed to be coming round, Maria helping him up on to his elbows. His face was scarlet, his eyes fearful.
    ‘Sorry …’
    Maria looked around again.
    ‘Sorry, Joe …’
    Donovan said nothing, stared ahead as if he was invisible, as if he couldn’t see or hear the other two.
    ‘No.’ Sharkey was struggling to speak. His voice sounded raspy, broken. ‘My fault. I shouldn’t … I’m sorry.’
    Sharkey tried to get to his feet. Maria, with painful slowness, helped him.
    ‘I didn’t realize it was so …’ Sharkey sighed. ‘It must still be painful for you.’
    Donovan nodded slowly and deliberately.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Now fuck off.’
    Maria nodded. ‘Suppose we asked for that. Sorry, Joe.’
    Donovan stared straight ahead. ‘Just leave me alone.’ His voice sounded small in his own head. Fragile and easily broken.
    The other two turned to leave, Sharkey supported by Maria. As he reached the door he stopped, turned.
    ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, voice as shaky as his body, ‘that Maria told you the deal?’
    Donovan looked up slightly. Maria looked at Sharkey, frowning.
    ‘Deal?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Sharkey, the ghost of a lawyer’s glint returning to his eye, ‘the deal. You help us to find Gary Myers, negotiate on our behalf, and we help you find your son.’
    Donovan pulled himself swiftly to his feet, ignoring the reeling in his head.
    ‘David? You know where he is?’
    ‘No,’ said Sharkey, ‘I didn’t say that. I said that if you help us, we’ll do what we can to help you.’
    Maria shook her head in disbelief. This was never part of the plan. She opened her mouth to speak. Sharkey, gently but firmly, placed a restraining hand on her arm, looked her straight in the eye, shook his head in admonition. Donovan, eyes only for Sharkey, missed the subtle gesture.
    ‘How?’ said Donovan.
    ‘By giving you access to as many resources as we can,access to files, the means to follow up leads and sightings … What do you say, Mr Donovan?’
    Sharkey smiled, seemingly back to his previous self.
    Maria turned away, shook her head.
    ‘Hmm? Have we got a deal?’
    Donovan stared at him, hope rising behind his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘yeah. We’ve got a deal.’
    Sharkey stuck out his hand. Donovan took it. They shook.
    Donovan suddenly noticed the rain had stopped.

3
    Jamal woke up, pulled his jacket around him, suppressed a shiver.
    He unfolded his legs, cramp- and cold-hardened, slowly uncurled his body from its foetal shape, stretched the aches and pains away and yawned.
    He didn’t feel awake. He didn’t feel like he had slept.
    The BMW’s back seat had been hard and unyielding at the start of its life, but a decade and a half of over- and misuse had left it spewing stuffing and thrusting, rusted springs, rendering it unfit to take the weight of