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like a tobogganist down the Cresta run. Had there been anybody else in the church they would have heard the crack of his neck snapping as he hit the bottom, but there wasn’t.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Big Bernard Firth, captain of the team of bell-ringers at St Peter and St Paul’s, was last to arrive for their weekly practice session of the Exercise, as they called it. He unlocked the door to the ringing chamber with his personal key and they went in. One of the others switched on the spotlights that were fixed to the ceiling, bathing the floor of the room in a dramatic glow.
    ‘Right,’ said Bernard, ‘let’s not mess about, I’m thirsty already. You lot pull off and I’ll catch up.’
    The other five began pulling on the ropes of the lighter bells, setting them swinging silently in the belfry. As they swung higher, almost reaching the vertical, the clappers struck the sides, causing them to sound. Soon they fell into the familiar rhythm. Bernard grasped the brightly coloured sally at the end of his rope and watched and listened for his cue to commence.
    The vicar’s body lay on the Union Jack, on thewalk-way that skirted the bells. The wind had teased and pulled at the flag until a large portion of it was enveloping the wheel and rope of the tenor bell. Bernard Firth tightened his grip, recognised his opening, and pulled.
    ‘Bloody ’ell, it’s stiff,’ he cried, as the big bell came over the centre and started to fall, but without its usual urgency.
    “Spect it’s full of pigeon shit,’ declared one of his colleagues.
    ‘Ask Gerry to tell old Joe to oil the bearings.’ suggested another.
    ‘What’s happened to Gerry? Nobody’s seen him for two days,’ stated a third.
    At that moment the ceiling above them exploded.
    For the briefest second they all saw the vicar hurtling out of the floodlights, Union Jack trailing behind, like a victorious Olympic sky diver on his lap of honour. Then he thudded, leadenly, onto the stone-flagged floor. They stood in a circle, open-mouthed and horrified, gazing at the broken heap at their centre, oblivious to the bells above them saying: Dong-ding-dong…dong-a-dong… ding-dong …dong…dong…dong.
     
    The search for little Georgina was fruitless and depressing. We conferred with other forces who had missing kids on their books but it was a futile exercise. Usually there was a car or a strangerspotted near the scene of the disappearance, but we didn’t even have that. Most had occurred in rural areas or on quiet council estates, but this one had happened in the middle of town during the rush hour. Only the grief was the same. You can only put all your resources into a job like this for so long. The world doesn’t stand still while you look for a lost child. Slowly the urgency drains away as you run out of places to look, suspects to interview. Other crimes, some serious, demand attention, so you have to divert officers towards them. And every day that passes saps what little faith you had that you would find her alive.
    Then the note came.
    Dewhurst rang the office at eight in the morning to say that there was a ransom demand in his post. I told him not to touch it again and to wait. We were with him in ten minutes.
    He’d opened the letter in the kitchen, standing at the worktop. It’s not the way I would have expected a businessman to conduct his affairs, but he said the envelope had caught his eye. Normally one glance tells him what’s inside, but he hadn’t recognised this one, so he’d opened it. It sounded reasonable. The address on the white self-sealing envelope was typed on a label. The note, lying alongside, had resumed its folded position. I smoothed it out, using my pen and a fingernail. It was composed of letters cut from newspapers andglued to a sheet of white paper, like you see in TV thrillers, except that all the letters were of different sizes. It said:
    R AISE H ALF A M ILLION I N N EXT 7 D AYS T O S EE H ER A GAIN . C ASH
    Our tame forensic boffins