“Merry Christmas,” called Mr Ridyard.

I leant across to my notebook and scrawled two words only: White Van.

I raised a wave to Mr Ridyard standing alone in the doorway, a lid on all my curses.

One thought: Call Kathryn.

“It was a fucking nightmare.” Back in the bright red phonebox, I dropped in another coin, hopping from foot to foot, freezing my balls off. “Anyway, then he says well there was this white van, but I don’t remember reading anything about a white van, do you?”

Kathryn was flicking through her own notes on the other end, agreeing.

“Wasn’t in any of the appeals for information?”

Kathryn said, “No, not that I remember.” I could hear the buzz of the office from her end. I felt too far away. I wanted to be back there.

“Any messages?” I asked, juggling the phone, a notebook, a pen, and a cigarette.

“Just two. Barry and…”

“Barry? Say what it was about? Is he there now?”

“No, no. And a Sergeant Craven…”

“Sergeant who?”

“Craven.”

“Fuck, no idea. Craven? Did he leave a message?”

“No, but he said it was urgent.” Kathryn sounded pissed off.

“If it was that fucking urgent I’d know him. Calls again, ask him to leave a message, will you?” I let the cigarette fall into the pool of water on the floor of the phonebox.

“Where you going now?”

“The pub, where else? Bit of the old local colour. Then I’m coming straight back. Bye.”

I hung up, feeling fucked off.

She was staring at me from across the bar of the Huntsman.

I froze, then picked up my pint and walked towards her, drawn by her eyes, tacked up by the toilets, above a cigarette machine, at the far end of the bar.

Susan Louise Ridyard was smiling big white teeth for her school portrait, though her eyes said her fringe was a little too long, making her appear awkward and sad, like she knew what was coming next.