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    “Think she’s on the level?”
    “If she’s not she should be on bloody stage.”
    “Skeletons in the cupboard?”
    “No serious debts – well, nowt worse than anyone else on the Dunwich. No involvement in owt dodgy. No signs of drug abuse.”
    “Ransom?”
    “She’s on benefits. Council accommodation. No rich relatives. Nowt worth a kidnapper’s while.”
    “That’s what I was afraid of.”
    “Aye. Sorry boss. Most likely explanation’s some bastard paedo.”
    “Or more than one. Very convenient, those bushes rustling when they did. Team effort? One distracts the mum, one grabs the kid?”
    “Or some sick bastard saw an opportunity and took it. Either way, doesn’t look good for the kiddie.” A moment’s pause. “You’re thinking on the Baldwin lass.” It wasn’t a question.
    “Baldwin didn’t mean to kill his daughter. He’d been abusing her for years – went too far one night, panicked... But this looks planned. Deliberate.”
    “Aye.”
    “So what’ve you done so far?”
    “Pulled in every known sex offender in the Kempforth, rung CID in Blackburn and Accrington about theirs. SOCO did a fingertip search of the scene. Background checks on family.”
    “But?”
    “Nowt. Whoever took her knew what they were about. Only chance of catching them is finding summat.”
    Renwick breathed out. “Like a body.”
    “Or summat. Plenty of other things–”
    “Chances are we’ll never find her. Or she’ll turn up in a shallow grave ten years down the line and the killer’ll be long gone. Even if he’s not, he’ll have worked his way through a dozen other kids first–”
    “We can’t afford to think that way, Joan. You know that.”
    He didn’t often call her by name. When he did, she listened. “Yeah,” she said at last, “I know.”
    Stakowski frowned. “You shouldn’t need me to tell you that, normally. Everything all right with you?”
    “Oi. Sergeant. We’re working here.”
    “Sorry, ma’am. Another coffee?”
    “No. Yes.”
    Stakowski put the kettle on. “Best thing you can do for the kiddie is keep your head clear and do the job, boss. Cross the t’s, dot the i’s. Don’t miss owt. Best chance we’ve got.”
    “Yes, al right .”
    “Sorry.” Stakowski waited. The kettle boiled.
    Renwick sighed. “Split up with Nick.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I’m not. Better finding out now before it got serious.”
    “Thought it already was.”
    “So did I. Not like I didn’t tell him how it was gonna be.”
    “I remember. Late nights, broken dates, having to dash off at any minute. Nearly had tears rolling down me face by the end. Did you actually start playing the violin or was that my imagination?”
    “In your case I’d say senile dementia. He said he understood.”
    “Probably thought he did. You can know summat and not know it.”
    “Very profound.” Renwick raised her cup in a mock toast. “Least I won’t have to spend it in Yorkshire with his whole bloody family. All ninety-six of them.”
    “Now you’re exaggerating.”
    “Felt like ninety-six when I was there. All gawping like I was a circus freak.”
    “You were in Yorkshire. They’re not used to fingers that aren’t webbed.” Renwick laughed. “So what are you doing for Christmas now? Seeing your Dad?”
    “No.”
    “Just asked.”
    Renwick sighed. “Expect I’ll be too busy anyway, with all this.”
    “Still not much of a Christmas.”
    “I just don’t fancy scooting off to the Wirral to hear Dad banging on about me getting ‘left on the shelf’ again like I’m an alarm clock. That’s Morwenna talking. Not my idea of fun. Downright embarrassing, in fact. Dad and his new child bride.”
    “She’s older than you.
    “Just.”
    “If he’s happy...”
    “He’s my Dad .” Renwick sighed, shook her head. “Sorry. Forget it.”
    Stakowski shrugged. “I wouldn’t panic about the shelf thing yet. You’re still young.”
    “Thank you, old-timer.”
    Stakowski smiled, tipped an