She would have heard about the confession and be anxious for news… for good news. Mrs. Stuart, a small bundle of nervous energy, stubbornly refused to face facts, and was convinced that even after nine weeks, her eight-year-old daughter would suddenly walk into the house, fit and well, hungry for her tea. Her fragile smile was always on the verge of crumbling, and she talked a lot so she wouldn't have to listen to other people telling her things she didn't want to hear. Frost suspected that when there was no-one to see, she cried a lot. He had tried to get her to accept that after nine weeks there could be little hope, but she wouldn't listen…

'Of course she's coming back, Inspector… I know it… I just know it.'

'Would you tell her…' he began and then his attention was attracted by the flashing of a torch. PC Jordan, grimfaced, over by the inspection pit was waving urgently, beckoning him over. Frost went cold. Control was still babbling away. 'Inspector… are you there?' He clicked over to transmit. 'Yes, I'm still here. Tell Mrs. Stuart to go home. I'll call on her on the way back.' He took one last drag at his cigarette, then stepped out into the cold.

'Down there, Inspector.' Jordan directed the beam of his torch into the murk of filthy, oil-filmed water at the bottom of the inspection pit where discarded tyres and cans lurked. In the centre of the debris the torch lit up a sodden bundle of dark blue cloth. On that freezing cold November afternoon when Vicky Stuart waved goodbye to her schoolmates, she had been wearing a thick, warm, blue, winter coat. Frost poked another cigarette in his mouth and sighed. 'All right, lads. Let's get her out.'