I turned back. “Please, Kath?”

She stood up and left the room.

Fuck.

Tip to tip, I lit another cigarette.

Barry Cannon, skinny, single, and obsessed, papers every where, covered in figures.

I crouched down beside his desk.

Barry Cannon was chewing his pen. “So?”

“Unsolved missing kids. One in Castleford and one in Roch dale? Maybe.”

“Yeah. Rochdale I’d have to check, but the one in Castleford was 1969. Moon landings. Jeanette Garland.”

Bells ringing. “And they never found her?”

“No.” Barry took the end of the pen from his mouth, staring at me.

“Police have anything at all?”

“Doubt it.”

“Cheers. I’d better get to it then.”

“Mention it,” he winked.

I stood up. “How’s Dawsongate?”

“Fuck knows.” Barry Cannon, not smiling, looking back down at the papers and the figures, chewing the end of his pen.

Fuck.

I took the hint. “Cheers, Barry.”

I was halfway back to my desk, Kathryn coming into the office hiding a smile, when Barry shouted, “You going to the Press Club later?”

“If I get through all this.”

“If I think of anything else, I’ll see you there.”

More surprised than grateful. “Cheers Barry. Appreciate it.”

Kathryn Taylor, no trace of a smile. “Mr Hadden will see his North of England Crime Correspondent at seven sharp.”

“And when do you want to see your North of England Crime Correspondent?”

“In the Press Club, I suppose. If I must.” She smiled.

“You must,” I winked.

Down the corridor, into records.

Yesterday’s news.

Through the metal drawers, into the boxes.

A thousand Ruby Tuesdays.

I grabbed the reels, took a seat at a screen, and threaded through the microfilm.

July 1969.

I let the film fly by:

B Specials, Bernadette Devlin, Wallace Lawler, and In Place of Strife.

Wilson, Wilson, Wilson; like Ted had never been.