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understood that and respected him for it. But at one time he would never have mentioned anything that went on in the Oldford CID section, however trivial. He had shut the doors on her when it came to that dominant section of his life. She said gently, ‘I know how it upsets you, any sort of police corruption.’
    â€˜It affects us all, the publicity these idiots will get. The public tar us all with the same brush. We’re all corrupt and all on the take.’
    â€˜That’s the way life is, John. Some people always want to believe the worst. It’s not confined to the police.’
    He shook his head sadly, then grinned at her, suddenly and unexpectedly. ‘You’re right about me getting old. Perhaps we should discuss what we’re going to do when I retire.’
    Christine Lambert was a wise woman. She knew that, with husbands, you sometimes had to give up whilst you were winning. She said, ‘Let’s leave that until the time comes. You’ve got a few more years in you yet, super-sleuth.’
    She used the term one of the tabloids had created for him a year earlier, which she knew he hated. It was part of a private code between them, and he grinned his recognition of that, then switched to happier themes and talked for a pleasant ten minutes about how quickly and attractively George and Harry were developing. He was fully alert again for the BBC’s
Match of the Day
and managed to shout at the screen three times after Christine had retired to bed. Not too bad a day after all, he decided.
    It rained overnight, but only a little light drizzle. A weak early-morning sun was beginning to pierce the autumn mist as Lambert drew the curtains back. He’d be able to get out into the garden by late morning. Dig over the vegetable plot and leave it ready for the first frosts.
    The phone rang early. That was never a good sign at the weekend. Christine answered it, then passed it across with a sigh of resignation to her husband. She went back into the kitchen and left John speaking in low tones into the mouthpiece. Most of the talk came from the other end of the line; his contribution was a series of terse questions about time and place.
    His face was drawn and grey when he came to her and spoke across the table and his untouched toast. ‘It’s a missing child. A seven-year-old girl vanished last night. Disappeared from the fairground. She still hasn’t been found. I’m going in straight away.’
    Christine listened to his clipped phrases, nodded grimly and went with him to the door. They looked at each other but didn’t wave as he reversed his big old Vauxhall in front of the bungalow, then turned swiftly through the gates and into the wide and dangerous world outside. Both of them were thinking of their two joyous, innocent grandsons, who had so enjoyed the fairground rides the previous day.
    â€˜Why didn’t I hear about this last night?’
    The station sergeant looked at Lambert apprehensively. He could have said that he wasn’t on duty then, but that would have been buck-passing. Something in the chief super’s manner indicated that he wouldn’t appreciate buck-passing. ‘It wasn’t reported until five to ten, sir. It was midnight by the time a uniformed PC had brought in the first statement from the mother. There’s no father around.’
    â€˜What was a seven-year-old doing around the fairground at that time?’
    â€˜I gather she disappeared much earlier, sir. Around half past seven, I believe. They spent the evening hoping she’d turn up, I think.’
    Lambert didn’t ask who ‘they’ were. This was all second- or third-hand information and he wanted something more direct.
    The station was unusually busy for a Sunday morning. A missing child brought in male and female officers in numbers no other emergency prompted. Lambert assembled the CID staff and made the initial moves. He directed Detective Sergeant