Two kids missing, Castleford and Rochdale, no dates, only maybes.

Long shots in the dark.

Punch a button, national radio; sixty-seven dismissed from the Kentish Times and the Slough Evening Mail, NUJ Provincial Journalists set to strike from 1 January.

Edward Dunford, Provincial Journalist.

Long shots kick de bucket.

I saw Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman’s face, I saw my editor’s face, and I saw a Chelsea flat with a beautiful Southern girl called Sophie or Anna closing the door.

You might be balding but it’s not fucking Kojak.

I parked behind Millgarth Police Station as they were packing up the market, gutters full of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit, thinking play it safe or play it scoop?

I squeezed the steering wheel, offering up a prayer:

LET NO OTHER FUCKER ASK THE QUESTION.

I knew it for what it was, a prayer.

The engine dead, another prayer from the steering wheel:

DON’T FUCK UP.

Up the steps and through the double doors, back into Millgarth Police Station.

Muddy floors and yellow lights, drunken songs and short fuses.

I flashed my Press Card at the desk, the Sergeant flashed back a mustard smile:

“Cancelled. Press Office rang round.”

“You’re joking? Why?”

“No news. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” I grinned, thinking no questions asked.

The Sergeant winced.

I glanced around, opened my wallet. “What’s the SP?”

He took the wallet out of my hand, plucked out a fiver, and handed it back. “That’ll do nicely, sir.”

“So?”

“Nowt.”

“That was a fucking fiver.”

“So a fiver says she’s dead.”

“Hold the fucking Front Page,” I said, walking back out. “Give my best to Jack.”

“Fuck off.”

“Who loves you baby?”

Back in the office.