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page news for South Wales newspapers. The case had made national news for a while, until a premier league footballer was caught having an affair and the murder was casually pushed aside for this far more exciting and news-worthy story.
    A lot had changed since Kate’s career had started. She remembered when real people mattered and a time when the public cared about what happened to other people around them; other normal, everyday people like them. Now no one seemed to care about anyone who didn’t have a famous face. News was determined by celebrity and scandal and if you were famous enough, attractive enough, or rich enough – no matter how trivial the story surrounding you – you were more important to the press than some poor sod who’d been murdered after a night out.
    The murderer hadn’t been caught.
                  ‘You don’t think…’
                  ‘Seems unlikely, you’re right. I’ll know more later. What about you?’ Chris asked, changing the subject. He’d seen and heard enough misery already for one day: though it was not yet eleven. Hopefully Kate would have some good news. He could do with a bit of cheering up. ‘I hope you didn’t wait too long at the pub?’ he asked.
                  ‘Not long,’ she confessed. She paused and twisted a strand of hair around a finger. ‘I thought I saw Stacey Reed on Taff Street.’
                  At the other end of the line Chris raised his eyes skyward and Kate sensed the expression though she wasn’t there to witness it. It was a look she’d seen an uncountable number of times before.
    ‘Katy,’ he said. ‘You promised this wouldn’t happen again.’
                  ‘I didn’t promise anything,’ she replied defensively. She sat back resignedly, leaned an arm against the driver’s side window and prepared herself for the lecture that was bound to follow. ‘She looked a lot like her from a distance. It would have been irresponsible not to follow it up.’
                  ‘Follow it up?’ Chris repeated. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He knew how impulsive Kate could be. Her body had an unhelpful tendency to move before she’d had time to put her brain in gear and consider what she was doing.
                  ‘I just followed her to check,’ she said, winding down the window. Despite the fact that it was only February the air seemed close and she felt trapped, claustrophobic in the confines of her car. ‘It wasn’t her. She had one of those bags – the frog one that Stacey had from that new cheap shop in town.’
                  ‘What kid under the age of seven doesn’t have one of those bags?’ Chris asked incredulously.
    Chris knew Holly had nagged Lydia for one, but his ex-wife wouldn’t allow their daughter to wear anything that hadn’t been purchased from a Monsoon catalogue. He sometimes wondered whether she’d really wanted a child, or if a life-sized doll that she could dress in pretty clothes and show off to her friends would have done the trick.
                  ‘I know,’ Kate responded, her defences rising, ‘but listen, Chris. The thing is, after I followed this kid…’ She paused and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘I went to Stacey Reed’s house.’
                  Chris moved his elbow on the desk and rested his head in his hand. Why did she always have to do this? He sighed heavily, making no attempt to disguise his impatience.
                  ‘Christ, Kate – why?’
                  ‘I don’t know. A hunch.’
                  ‘Kate, American cops in bad TV shows get ‘hunches,’ Chris said, a little more bluntly than he had intended.
                  ‘This is different,’ Kate snapped, returning his antagonistic tone. ‘If your daughter was missing would you be watching TV and eating chips? If