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be if you need me.
    OK?’ As he turned away, a sudden chill thought struck him. He looked round the horseshoe of houses huddled round the green, then swung back to face Clough and Cragg. ‘And every house—I want you to check the kids are where they should be. I don’t want some mother having hysterics tomorrow morning when she discovers her kid’s missing too.’
    He didn’t wait for an answer, but set off for the stile. Just before he got there, he checked his stride and turned back to find Sergeant Lucas in the middle of directing the remaining six uniformed officers he’d managed to rustle up from somewhere. ‘Sergeant,’ George said. ‘There’s an outbuilding you can see from the kitchen window of the house. I don’t know if anyone’s checked it yet, but it might be worth taking a look, just in case she didn’t go for her usual walk.’
    Lucas nodded and gestured with his head to one of the constables. ‘See what you can see, lad.’ He nodded to George. ‘Much obliged, sir.’ Kathy Lomas stood at her window and watched the darkness swallow the tall man in the mac and the trilby. Illuminated by the headlights of the big car that had just rolled to a halt by the phone box, he’d borne a remarkable resemblance to James Stewart. It should have been a reassuring thought, but somehow it only made the evening’s events all the more unreal. Kathy and Ruth were cousins, separated by less than a year, connected by blood on both maternal and paternal sides. They had grown into women and mothers side by side.
    Kathy’s son Derek had been born a mere three weeks after Alison. The families’ histories were inextricably intertwined. So when Kathy, alerted by Derek, had walked into Ruth’s kitchen to find her cousin pacing anxiously, chain-smoking and fretting, she’d felt the stab of fear as strongly as if it had been her own child who was absent.
    They’d gone round the village together, at first convinced they would find Alison warming herself at someone else’s fire, oblivious to the passing of time, remorseful at causing her mother worry.
    But as they drew blank after blank, conviction had shrivelled to hope, then hope to despair. Kathy stood at the darkened window of Lark Cottage’s tiny front room, watching the activity that had suddenly bloomed in the dismal December night. The plain-clothes detective who had been driving the car, the one who looked like a Hereford bull with his curly poll and his broad head, pushed his car coat up to scratch his backside, said something to his colleague, then started towards her front door, his eyes seeming to meet hers in the darkness.
    Kathy moved to the door, glancing towards the kitchen where her husband was trying to concentrate on finishing a marquetry picture of fishing boats in harbour. ‘The police are here, Mike,’ she called. ‘Not before time,’ she heard him grumble.
    She opened the door just as the Hereford bull lifted his hand to knock. His startled look turned into a smile as he took in Kathy’s generous curves, still obvious even beneath her wraparound apron.
    ‘You’ll have come about Alison,’ she said.
    ‘You’re right, missus,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Clough, and this is Detective Constable Cragg. Can we come in a minute?’ Kathy stepped back and let them pass, allowing Clough to brush against her breasts without complaint. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead. You’ll find my husband in there,’ she said coldly.
    She followed them and leaned against the range, trying to warm herself against the cold fear inside, waiting for the men to introduce themselves and settle round the table. Clough turned to her. ‘Have you seen Alison since she got home from school?’
    Kathy took a deep breath. ‘Aye. It was my turn to pick up the kids off the school bus. In the winter, one of us always drives up to the lane end to collect them.’
    ‘Was there anything different about Alison that you noticed?’ Clough asked.
    Kathy thought