“So what do you honestly think?” Hadden was looking back down at some other photographs.

Caught off guard, genuinely dumb. “About what?”

Hadden looked up again. “Do you seriously think it could be the same man?”

“Yeah. Yes, I do.”

“All right,” said Hadden and put down the magnifying glass. “Chief Superintendent Oldman will see you tomorrow. He won’t thank you for any of this. The last thing he wants is some bloody Kiddie-Catcher scare. He’ll ask you not to write the story, you’ll agree, and he’ll appear grateful. And a grateful Detective Chief Superintendent is something every North of England Crime Correspondent should have.”

“But…” My hand was up in the air and it felt stupid there.

“But then you’ll go ahead and prepare all the background on the two Rochdale and Castleford girls. Interview the families, if they’ll see you.”

“But why, if…”

Bill Hadden smiled. “Human interest, five years on or what ever. And so then, if you are right about all this, we won’t be left back in the starting stalls.”

“I see,” I said with the Christmas present I’d always wanted, but in the wrong size and colour.

“But don’t push George Oldman tomorrow,” said Hadden, edging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “This paper has an excellent relationship with our new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Force. I’d like to keep it that way, especially now.”

“Of course.” Thinking, especially now?

Bill Hadden leant back in his big leather chair, arms behind his head. “You know as well as I do that this whole thing could blow over tomorrow and, even if it doesn’t, it’ll be buried by Christmas anyway.”

I stood up, reading my cue, thinking you’re so wrong.

My editor picked up his magnifying glass again. “Still getting letters on the Ratcatcher. Good stuff.”

“Thank you, Mr Hadden.” I opened the door.

“You really ought to have a go at one of these,” said Hadden, tapping a photograph. “Right up your street.”