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wretched time for the lonely, particularly the elderly lonely ones who didn’t even have enough money to heat their homes properly. But it was a quiet period for serious crimes – the kind that could get an ambitious young detective sergeant like himself noticed by his peers and give him the chance to show his abilities.
    That was about to change.
    Very unusually, the phones had been quiet. Normally they rang all around the room constantly.
    As the first serials appeared, his internal phone suddenly rang.
    ‘CID,’ he answered.
    It was a Force Control Room operator, from the centre which handled and graded all enquiries.
    ‘Hi, Roy. Happy Christmas.’
    ‘You too, Doreen,’ he said.
    ‘Got a possible misper,’ she said. ‘Rachael Ryan, twenty-two, left her friends on Christmas Eve at the cab rank on East Street to walk home. She did not show up for Christmas lunch at her parents and did not answer her home phone or mobile. Her parents visited her flat in Eastern Terrace, Kemp Town, at 3 p.m. yesterday and there was no response. They’ve informed us this is out of character and they are concerned.’
    Grace took down the addresses of Rachael Ryan and her parents and told her he would investigate.
    The current police policy was to allow several days for a missing person to turn up before assigning any resources, unless they were a minor, an elderly adult or someone identified as being vulnerable. But with today promising to be quiet, he decided he’d rather be out doing something than sitting here on his backside.
    The twenty-nine-year-old Detective Sergeant got up and walked along a few rows of desks to one of his colleagues who was in today, DS Norman Potting. Some fifteen years his senior, Potting was an old sweat, a career detective sergeant who had never been promoted, partly because of his politically incorrect attitude, partly because of his chaotic domestic life, and partly because, like many police officers, including Grace’s late father, Potting preferred front-line work rather than taking on the bureaucratic responsibilities that came with promotion. Grace was one of the few here who actually liked the man and enjoyed listening to his ‘war stories’ – as police tales of past incidents were known – because he felt he could learn something from them; and besides, he felt a little sorry for the guy.
    The Detective Sergeant was intently pecking at his keyboard with his right index finger. ‘Bloody new technology,’ he grumbled in his thick Devon burr as Grace’s shadow fell over him. A reek of tobacco smoke rose from the man. ‘I’ve had two lessons, still can’t make sodding head nor tail of this. What’s wrong with the old system we all know?’
    ‘It’s called progress,’ Grace said.
    ‘Hrrr. Progress like allowing all sorts into the force?’
    Ignoring this, Grace replied, ‘There’s a reported misper that I’m not very happy about. You busy? Or got time to come with me to make some enquiries?’
    Potting hauled himself to his feet. ‘Anything to break the mahogany, as my old auntie would say,’ he replied. ‘Have a good Christmas, Roy?’
    ‘Short and sweet. All six hours of it that I spent at home, that is.’
    ‘At least you have a home,’ Potting said morosely.
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘I’m living in a bedsit. Threw me out, didn’t she? Not much fun, wishing your kids a merry Xmas from a payphone in the corridor. Eating an ASDA Christmas Dinner for One in front of the telly.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace replied. He genuinely was.
    ‘Know why women are like hurricanes, Roy?’
    Grace shook his head.
    ‘Because when they arrive they’re wet and wild. When they leave they take your house and car.’
    Grace humoured him with a thin, wintry smile.
    ‘It’s all right for you – you’re happily married. Good luck to you. But just watch out,’ Potting went on. ‘Watch out for when they turn. Trust me, this is my second bloody disaster. Should have learned my lesson first time