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Annie was putting on. It was called
Red as a Rose
. Sweetly pretty, it was. All the little ones played different flowers. Brian seemed a very nice man. Educated. He worked in an office, you know.’
    She said this in a tone of hushed awe. The lustre of a white-collar job was obviously enough to put Brian Baxter above suspicion.
    ‘Have you heard anything about the play they’re working on at the moment?’
    ‘No,’ said Edna. ‘They’re always quite secretive. No one must see it “in rehearsal”, that’s what Annie says. She’s a caution.’
    Bob and Emma had said that the children had seemed reluctant to talk about the play. Was this just loyalty to their leader? Or was something else troubling the cast?
    ‘How well do you know Annie’s parents?’ he asked.
    ‘Not very well. We keep ourselves to ourselves really.’
    Is that possible, thought Edgar, on a street like this? On the other hand, his own mother had made every effort to avoid her neighbours whenever possible. Maybe the Websters, a quiet couple with an only child, were the same.
    ‘Did you ever chat with Sandra Francis, about the children maybe?’
    ‘Sometimes. She seems a nice woman. Her father was a teacher, you know.’
    ‘And Jim?’
    ‘I don’t really know Jim at all. I mean, he’s a labourer . . .’
    Her voice died away, leaving Edgar to guess at the layers of class distinction involved. Clearly Reg Webster, as a bus driver, rated above Jim Francis, a manual labourer, even if his wife was the daughter of a teacher.
    ‘Must be difficult for the Francises,’ he said casually, ‘with all those children.’
    Edna said nothing, twisting the cushion round and round.
    ‘Annie must like coming here.’
    Edna smiled. ‘Yes. Sometimes she says she doesn’t want to go home.’
    ‘Does she? Why?’
    ‘I don’t know. I think her parents can be strict.’
    ‘Jim? Her dad?’
    ‘More her mother, I think. She expects a lot from Annie. She’s the eldest, of course.’
    ‘Has Annie ever said anything to Mark about her parents? Anything to show she’s scared of them?’
    Edna smiled sadly. ‘Even if she had, Mark would never tell me. He knows how to keep a secret, does Mark.’
    That seemed an odd thing to say about a child. Edgar was about to ask more when a sound outside made Edna cock her head, listening.
    ‘It’s Reg,’ she said.
    Edgar knew that Edna was hoping that her husband would come in with some news, a sighting or a witness or even just a report that the weather was lifting. Even Edgar was half hoping, although he knew that if there had been news Reg Webster would have shouted it out, rather than clumping about in the hall taking his boots off.
    Reg entered the room in his stockinged feet, a thin wiry man who looked some years older than his wife.
    ‘Anything?’ asked Edna, still with that unbearable tinge of hope in her voice.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Reg. ‘We went right to the top of the race hill, all along the number 2 route. Searched the scrubland by the stables, everything.’
    ‘The army will keep looking,’ said Edgar, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. ‘They’re experts at this kind of thing.’
    ‘We’ll all keep looking,’ said Reg. ‘It’s what we might find that scares me.’
    There was no answer to this. Edgar said goodbye and made his way seven doors up the road to the Francis house.
    *
    Bob and Emma were looking back through yesterday’s witness statements. It was Emma’s idea. Bob had wanted to go back out, to search the park, to join the army team on the race hill, but Emma insisted. ‘This is more useful. Anyone can dig through the snow. This is using our brains.’
    ‘I suppose you’d know all about that.’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    Bob looked back at the papers on the desk, some in Emma’s neat hand, some in his sprawling capitals. He didn’t know why Emma made him feel stupid but she just did. Maybe it was her voice, quiet but somehow confident,