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relished it, let out a groan of pleasure as his palm became warm. Then he pressed more firmly. He opened his eyes so that he could watch the boy’s chest rise. He gave a small gasp as the tiny chest stayed there, as the boy waited to take a breath, for the air to return.
    He pressed harder, just a few more seconds, felt therush as the boy’s face started to go red. He swallowed, felt his own breaths come faster. He could choose. It was entirely up to him. Life or death.
    He smiled to himself, almost in congratulation. He chose life.
    He moved his hand away and the boy’s chest sank. The boy let out a long sigh, and his breathing returned to normal.
    He put his cheek near to the boy’s, felt the warmth on his own. He sat back and began to laugh, excited. He held up his hands, turned them in the light from the lamp. Healing hands, he thought, laughing louder. Healing hands.
    He turned towards the television. It was the morning news that interested him. The old portable television was plugged into a car battery, a long coaxial cable leading out of the room. It threw blue flickers around the dirty walls, making the colour of the boy’s face shift and move.
    The boy was on a bed by a wall, an old camp bed, a collection of sheets and blankets over him at night. There was a book next to it,
The Little Prince.
He read from it sometimes. The boy had been looked after, and he would be going home soon.
    The news started on the hour. The boy had been the lead story for the last week. It was slipping down the news now, often just a tail-end reminder. The parents had done what they could to keep the press interested, but with no news there was nothing to report. The police had done what they always did, released information slowly, repackaged old leads as new ones, just to keep the story alive.
    He settled back in his chair. His breathing slowed down, his body became still. He sensed the shadows in the room settle around him, like a cloak around his shoulders, dark and comforting. As the news came on, he closed his eyes and waited.
    The boy was the third story in. The parents wept some more. They loved him, they realised that now. But what about when he had taken him? He was just hanging around the streets, close to midnight. Cider and cigarettes. Bikes and skateboards. Not at home. Not safe.
    He smiled as the parents pleaded to the camera, felt himself become aroused. They were searching the streets, doing their own door to door. Oh, he liked that. They desperately wanted him back. And he could do that. He could make it better. He sat forward. He wanted to see their eyes, wanted to know that it would be different when the boy went home.
    He sighed with pleasure. He had seen it, the pain, the longing, the apology in their eyes. They knew now how much being without him had hurt them.
    He looked towards the boy.
    ‘I’ll make you rich, Connor,’ he whispered, a tear forming in his eye. He leaned forward, so that his mouth was by the boy’s face. He spoke softly, tenderly. ‘Richer than you’ve ever been before. Not money,’ he said quietly. ‘You won’t need that. There are greater riches in the world than that.’
    He looked back towards the television.
    ‘Just one more day,’ he whispered. ‘Just one more day.’

Chapter Eight
    I made it to the morning briefing on the abductions, held early to give the evening editions and lunchtime television a chance to get their reports ready. There was nothing much that was new so I headed to the Magistrates’ Court, next to the police station.
    Going to court had been my fall-back in London. If in doubt, go to court, because there was always something to write about. My career had started by writing court reports, when I had worked on one of the local papers based in Turners Fold. All the crime from Turners Fold ended up in the Blackley court—it was the biggest local town—so I knew my way around the courthouse, an old Victorian building, with pillars by the doors and high