Foot down with Leeds behind me, I switched off the tape, turned on the heater and the radio, and listened in as fears continued to grow on the local stations and a story grew on the nationals.

Every fucker biting, the story refusing to lie down and die.

I gave them one more day without a body before it went inside to Page Two, then a police reconstruction next Friday marking the one week anniversary and a brief return to the Front Page.

Then it was Saturday afternoon sport all the way.

One arm on the wheel, I killed the radio as I flipped through Kathryn’s precise typed A4 on my lap. I pressed record on the Pocket Memo, and began to chant:

“Susan Louise Ridyard. Missing since 20 March 1972, aged ten years old. Last seen outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale, 3.55 PM”

“Extensive police search and nationwide publicity spelling zero, nothing, nowt. George Oldman headed the inquiry, despite being a Lancashire job. Asked for it.”

“Castleford and…?”

“Rochdale.”

Lying bastard.

“Investigation still officially open. Parents solid, two other kids. Parents continue to regularly put up fresh posters across the country. Re-mortgaged house to cover the cost.”

I switched off the tape, smiling a big Fuck You to Barry Cannon, knowing the Ridyards would be right back there and I’d be bringing them nothing new but fresh publicity.

I pulled up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a freshly painted bright red phonebox.

Fifteen minutes later I was reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a quiet part of Rochdale.

It was pissing down.

Mr Ridyard was standing in the doorway.

I got out of the car and said, “Good morning.”

“Nice weather for ducks,” said Mr Ridyard.

We shook hands and he led me through a tiny hall into the dark front room.