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Eliot and a selection from Gerard Manley Hopkins. The girl, after all, was only thirteen. A photograph of a handsome but very old woman and one she resembled stood on top of the bookcase but the one of her brother, identical to that which they had been given, was on the bedside cabinet. A rack of CDs held hip-hop and Britney Spears, showing Sophie to be more normal than her brother. Her clothes contributed nothing in the way of enlightenment except that things to wear didn’t much interest her. From the brown-and-gold blazer and brown pleated skirt, they saw that she went to the same school as her brother. There was a hockey stick and a tennis racquet in the wardrobe as well. Sophie’s computer was a humbler version of Giles’s with Internet access but no printer. No doubt, she shared his. She also had a combined radio and cassette player, and a CD Walkman.
       Wexford and Vine went downstairs and put a few more questions to the parents. Katrina Dade was lying down. Her husband was on his knees picking up broken glass, having made her a cup of coffee. None was offered to the two police officers. Wexford asked about clothes and Dade said they had looked, this had seemed important to his wife, but they had been unable to say what had gone. So many of the clothes their children wore looked just the same, blue jeans and black jeans, plain T-shirts and T-shirts with logos, black, grey and white trainers.
       ‘How about coats?’ Vine asked. ‘Where do you keep coats? When they went out they must have worn some thing more than a sweater at this time of the year.’
       Wexford wasn’t so sure. It had become a sign of a kind of macho strength and youthful stamina not to wear a coat outdoors, not even in snow, not even when the temperature fell below freezing. And it hadn’t been cold for the time of year. But was Giles Dade that sort of boy? The boastful swaggering sort who would strut about in a sleeveless vest while others wore padded jackets? He followed Vine and Giles’s father out into the hall, and the inside of a large and rather ornate clothes cupboard was examined.
       A fur coat hung there, mink probably, very likely Roger Dade’s gift to his wife in happier days before disillusionment set in, but very politically incorrect just the same. Wexford wondered when and where she dared wear it. In Italy, on a winter holiday? There were two other winter coats, both belonging to the parents, a man’s raincoat, a padded jacket, a fleece, a reinforced red garment that looked as if designed for skiing in and a striped cagoule with hood.
       ‘Giles has got an army surplus greatcoat,’ said Dade. ‘It’s hideous but he likes it. It should be here but it’s not. And Sophie has a brown padded jacket like that one but that’s not hers. That’s Giles’s.’
       Then it looks likely they at least went of their own volition, Wexford thought. Roger Dade took his own raincoat out of the cupboard, hung it over his arm, said, ‘I’m going. I just hope this will all have blown over before I get back tonight.’
       Wexford didn’t answer. ‘You say you phoned the parents of the children’s friends. We’d like names and addresses, please. As soon as possible. Have you cleared the messages from your answerphone?’
       ‘We’ve listened to them, not cleared them.’
       ‘Good. We’ll take the tape.’
       He walked back into the living room to say goodbye to Katrina. They would keep in touch. They would want to see her and her husband very soon. Lying on her back, she kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady. He knew she was awake.
       ‘Mrs Dade?’ Vine said. She didn’t stir. ‘We’re leaving.’
       ‘I suppose it’s understandable,’ said Wexford in the car. All the many times I’ve talked to parents whose children are missing I’ve never been able to understand why they don’t scream the place down with rage and fear. And when I come across one who does I pass judgement on