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was covered with his shades and bushy hair. The two of them were standing outside Screamers, a club with a justified reputation for admitting the underage, and one that had long since closed. Captured on the edge of the photo that a passer-by had taken at Martin’s insistence, were some girls from school in pelmet skirts and lurex tops, who had just run past, shouting abuse at them.
    The night is freezing. They join the queue, the bouncer at the door playing the usual power game of ‘who’s hot, who’s not’. Downstairs the walls sweat a mixture of body odour, smoke and alcohol. They push into the scrum at the bar, three deep, every punter for himself. They buy their drinks – a pint of Felinfoel for Cat, a weak-as-water screwdriver for Martin, the classic choice of the reluctant drinker.
    Then leaning her back against a pillar to watch the action on the dancefloor, she turns around to see one of the boys from school. He is a year older, had a reputation for trouble. She doesn’t need him to speak to her to know the evening is ruined. He goes to find his friends. She goes to find Martin. The pack of boys are following her around the club, making the sign of the cross and hissing like cats.
    ‘Witch’s bitch. Witch’s bitch.’
    Outside the club, the boys follow them back to the station. She had seen farm dogs working sheep in the same way. They board the train while the boys press their noses against the windows, running their fingers over their throats to tell them they are both dead meat.
    Cat glanced at the picture and then grimaced at Martin. He grimaced back, as far as his grief-stricken face allowed. She tried to recall the last time she’d seen her own copy of the picture. Tried and failed. Martin’s determination to cling on to their shared history acted as a gentle rebuke. Was this memento usually on display or had it been put there specifically for her visit?
    Martin led her through to a conservatory. This was a shadowy space, the large panes of glass covered by blinds that further muted the dullness of the day. There was a small iron table, a folded paper lying in the centre, two matching chairs pulled up close. Martin gestured to the chairs and Cat took a seat.
    ‘Cat.’ He tried to be polite. ‘How have you been?’
    He nodded, acknowledging the futility of his question.
    ‘I still don’t travel on trains too much, Martin.’
    He smiled at that, and so did she. She didn’t ask Martin how he had been. He pushed the newspaper on the table towards her. ‘You’ve probably seen this already.’
    His voice faltered. He put a hand in front of his mouth as if about to vomit. The front page of the
Echo
was again dominated by the story of Nia Hopkins’s disappearance. The girl was the same, but the picture was different; a close-up shot, but still with the same black eyes, white skin and straggly black hair. Again Cat thought that it could almost have been herself. She pushed the paper back to Martin.
    ‘I’ve seen it.’
    Martin swallowed, removed his hand from his mouth. ‘I just thought. Esyllt …’
    ‘Facts, Martin. I need facts.’
    His face had turned in on itself, a man in the grip of deep emotion. ‘I’d hoped you’d come straight away.’
    ‘You shoved a bit of paper under my garage door. Lost under about two hundred flyers for pizza delivery. You didn’t even use my letterbox. Didn’t leave your name on your messages. Didn’t pick up your phone. How the fuck was I to know it was you? Or where to find you, if it comes to that?’
    Cat was angry because those phone calls had scared her. Angry because the withdrawal was playing devil with her emotions. Because of the headache that never fully left. But most of all, because her friend had allowed a whole week of investigation to get lost. The first week. The most precious week.
    ‘Sorry, I didn’t know. I assumed you’d got the note.’
    ‘Why not call the police? I’ve just spoken to the station. DI Thomas. He knew fuck all