Denton was clearly a well organized, efficiently run station. Today, after his meeting with the Divisional Commander, he was to be taken around the station and introduced to the personnel and the various departments. Then his new boss, Detective Inspector Allen, was taking hint on a tour of the district to familiarize him with the area. After lunch in the canteen (1.15-2.15) he was off to visit the local Forensic Laboratory. At 5.30 precisely, a car would collect him up and return him to his home (e.t.a. 5.55 p.m.). ‘I’ll be back by six,’ he assured her.

One last lingering kiss and he put on his mac and dashed through the rain to his car. Liz flopped back on the settee and flicked through the paper again. She barely gave a glance to the item at the bottom of the front page: Hope Dies For Missing News Girl.

Denton Police Station didn’t look the model of efficiency Gilmore had been led to expect. The lobby was unattended, the floor wet from a hasty mopping and reeking of disinfectant. Somewhere a phone was ringing and no-one answered it. Leaning against the snorting with impatience, a middle-aged man waited. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling as Gilmore entered, inviting him to share his disgust at the treatment meted out to rate-paying members of the public. ‘My car’s been pinched. They won’t accept details over the phone – that’s too bloody easy. You have to take time off from flaming work, hire a cab because you’ve got no car and come down in person and fill in a damn form.’

A balding, uniformed sergeant with a mournful face came in. This was Bill Wells, pushing forty, tired and fed up. Today should have been his rest day. ‘Right, Mr Wilkins. Details have been circulated.’

‘So what happens now?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘It was probably taken by joy- riders. If a member of the public reports it abandoned somewhere, we’ll let you know so you can collect it.’