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George Bartlett didnʼt know how to reassure and wasnʼt comfortable trying. His own daughter was the same age as Norma Berryman and he knew how it would affect both his wife and himself if they were ever so unfortunate as to be in this terrible position. He remembered how he had felt waiting to hear of his son John during the war. Months and months had gone by until he had received such devastating news. Caroline Bartlett had never got over the death of her beloved son, and never would.
    The Berrymans left the station and Bartlett called Archie Boase into his office.
    Ê»I donʼt like it, Boase, none of it.ʼ He sat with his head in his hands and looked desperate.
    Boase sat on the corner of the desk.
    Ê»What now, sir?ʼ he asked, sensing the other manʼs frustration.
    Ê»Weʼre off to London, Greetʼs given us permission to go – we might just be in time for the train.ʼ Bartlett grabbed his hat and coat and stuffed a brand new pair of reading spectacles into his top pocket – he didnʼt like them but needed them. When he grew tired of squinting he put them on.
    The two men made their way to the railway station. They entered and approached the ticket office. Bartlett pulled some money from his pocket and addressed the clerk through the small arched window.
    Ê»Iʼd like two return tickets to London Paddington, please.ʼ
    The official was a thin man of about sixty years with a long, pointed nose, and what thinning grey hair remained was swept over the top of his head in an attempt to make him look younger. It didnʼt work. He peered over his half-moon glasses and smiled.
    Ê»Iʼm sorry, sir, that train left just ten minutes ago, thereʼs repairs going on this week – thereʼs only one train today,ʼ the smile turned to a smirk as the clerkʼs lips curled up at the sides, Ê»and that was it. You can go tomorrow, if you like.ʼ The smirk broadened.
    Bartlett flushed and held identification up to the glass. Ê»Look here my man, you are impeding official police business; I wish to travel to London, by train today.ʼ
    Ê»Well Iʼm very sorry to ʼear that, sir, very sorry I am, but, as I said, no trains today.ʼ With that the window closed sharply almost shattering the glass.
    Ê»Damned impertinence,ʼ muttered Bartlett. Ê»We canʼt wait till tomorrow, Boase, weʼll have to see what we can find out by telephone first. I know a couple of chaps in the Met. who could help me out if necessary – you know, make enquiries for me.ʼ
    The two men made their way back to the police station, Bartlett more than a little agitated. Ê»Get on the telephone to that firm of solicitors, Boase. Tell them weʼre investigating the girlʼs murder and weʼll be up tomorrow to discuss any information they may have to help with our enquiries. Weʼve missed the blasted train now but weʼve got other things we can be doing today. How did I miss that notice in the paper?ʼ
    Ê»Right you are, sir, Iʼll get on to it now.ʼ Boase left the room and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Bartlett feeling angry with himself.
    There must be something Iʼve got wrong, he thought to himself. He drew a sheet of paper from his desk and wrote in large letters at the top:
    MURDER OF IVY WILLIAMS/DISAPPEARANCE OF NORMA BERRYMAN

    He began to sketch out the events of the past few weeks; the disappearance of the girl, the murder of Ivy Williams, the disappearance of Francis Wilson, the strange photograph in the powder compact. It just didnʼt add up. The sun had burst through the clouds about half an hour previously and Bartlett felt the heat on his face through the window; he felt uncomfortable and sweaty. The fire lit earlier by Penhaligon was ablaze and the room was now far too hot. Bartlett loosened his collar and mopped his face and neck with his voluminous handkerchief. He got up from his chair and walked to the door to go out into the