Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.

No relatives.

The Pack smelling Clare dead.

The Pack thinking no body.

The Pack thinking no news.

The Pack smelling a story dead.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.

Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.

The first spits of a hard rain.

Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of dark factories and silent mills:

Election posters, mush and glue.

A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.

Big Brother watching you.

Fear eats the soul.

I switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, playing back the press conference as I drove, searching for details.

It had been a waste of everybody’s time but mine, no news being good news for Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, playing hunches.

“Concern is obviously mounting…”

Oldman had stuck to his story: bugger all despite all the best efforts of all his best men.

The Public had come forward with information and possible sightings but, as yet, all the best men had nothing substantial to go on.

“We’d like to stress that any member of the public who may have any information, no matter how trivial, should contact their nearest Police Station as a matter of some urgency, or telephone…”

Then there had been a spot of fruitless Q &A.

I kept it shut, not a bloody word.

Oldman, each of his answers straight back to me, eyes locked, never blinking.

“Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all for now…”

And, as he stood up, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman winked the Big Wink my way.

Oilman’s voice at the end of the tape: “What the fuck’s with you two?”