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Gardeners.’
    ‘What do they do?’
    ‘They grow food on communal ground. Recipes … Here’s a photo of a hot pot they made using free veg picked from a community wasteland garden. She’s a member of Cycle Power – a lobbying group which aims to ban cars.’
    ‘Scroll up a minute. What’s that?’ says Manon, pointing at the screen.
    Colin clicks on the image and Manon reads Edith Hind’s caption:
     
Bunting made from recycled copies of the FT . Happy Christmas, planet!
     
    She and Colin look at each other.
    ‘It’s a wonder she wasn’t murdered sooner,’ says Colin.
    ‘Those are exactly the sorts of thoughts I want you to keep to yourself,’ Manon says, rising. ‘Keep at it, Colin. Her hard drive, Google searches, matches on all her phone records.’ And then she marches across MIT to Harriet’s office.
    ‘So what was the interview with Carter like?’
    ‘Seems genuinely worried,’ says Harriet, hitching at her bra strap. ‘Keeps crying, pacing, asking for an update on the search. We need to be all over his weekend in Stoke. We can ask the Hind parents a bit more about their relationship, and the friend, Helena, whether there was anyone else in the background, boyfriend-wise. Tabs are already ringing the press office, Fergus said.’
    ‘It won’t be like Soham,’ says Manon. ‘Not in this climate, not after phone hacking. Things have changed.’
    ‘Don’t bet on it, not with her parents being who they are.’
    ‘Who are her parents?’
    ‘Sir Ian and Lady Hind. He’s an ear, nose, and throat surgeon. Fits the Royal grommets or something.’
    ‘Oh God.’
    ‘Yup. We have to tread carefully; the type who’ll complain over anything.’
    ‘Is it a ransom job then? He must be worth a bit.’
    ‘We’d have heard from them by now. Anyway, I’m not handing this to any centralised fucking crime unit, no way.’
    She gets up, pacing behind the desk, as if the speed of her thoughts is physical. The wings of her jacket are pinned back by her hands on her hips. She’s full of fire, unbridled. If Manon ever went missing, she’d want Harriet to head up the search.
    ‘Once Polsa’s on board, the pressure will ease off a bit,’ Harriet says, as much to herself as to Manon.
    The police search adviser and his specialist teams knew how to find people, or at least where to look. They would take the search further and wider than that clumsy first night: across meadows, along railway tracks, into woods, behind the doors of lock-up garages, in attics and cellars, and soon enough down below the opaque surface of rivers.
    Harriet looks at her watch. ‘Eight thirty. If she went missing shortly after midnight on Saturday, then we’re talking thirty-two hours. It’s sub-zero out there.’
    ‘I’ll send someone to bring in the friend, Helena Reed, shall I?’
    ‘Yup. I’ll go and talk to the parents. Urgh, this is the bit I hate – they’ll be frantic. Then I’m meeting Fergus in the press office. We’ll probably do a short briefing at 11 a.m., just me and the agencies and locals. Got to get those photos of the girl out and an initial appeal. We need to look at her bank activity. Can you start someone on that?’
     
    Manon and Davy slip into interview room one, where Sir Ian is pacing in a navy wool coat.
    ‘So, hang on a minute, you’re saying there isn’t a DCI on duty to run the search for my daughter?’ He has an imperious face, straight nose, pale eyes and thin lips. Charles Dance without the ginger colouring.
    ‘DC Walker and DS Bradshaw enter the room,’ says Harriet to the recording device. ‘It’s quite normal, Sir Ian, for a DI to run a case such as this. If you’d like to sit down, there are a number of things we’d like to ask you.’
    ‘What I want to know first is who is conducting the search. Who is
actually
out there in the snow, searching for her, because if she’s injured—’
    Lady Hind, who sits at the table opposite Harriet, takes his hand and holds it to her cheek,