Above her the biggest word was in red and said: MISSING.

Below her was a summary of her life and last day, both so brief.

Finally, there was an appeal for information and three tele phone numbers.

“Do you want another?”

With a jolt, back to an empty glass. “Yeah. Just the one.”

“Reporter are you?” said the barman, pulling the pint.

“That obvious is it?”

“We’ve had a fair few of your lot in here, aye.”

I handed over thirty-six pence exactly. “Thanks.”

“Who you with?”

“Post.”

“Owt fresh?”

“Just trying to keep the story alive, you know? We don’t want people forgetting.”

“That’s commendable that is.”

“Just been to see Mr and Mrs Ridyard,” I said, making a pal.

“Right. Derek pops in every once in a while. Folk say she’s not too good like.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Police don’t seem to have had a right lot to go on?”

“Lot of them used to sup in here while it was all going on.” The barman, probably the landlord, turned away to serve a customer.

I played my only card. “There was something about a van though. A white van?”

The barman slowly closed the till drawer, frowning. “A white van?”

“Yeah. Police told the Ridyards they were looking for a white van.”

“Don’t remember owt about that,” he said, pulling another pint, the pub now Saturday lunchtime busy. He rang up another sale and said, “Feeling I got was they all thought it were gypsies.”

“Gypsies,” I muttered, thinking here we fucking go.

“Aye. They’d been through here week before with the Feast. Maybes one of them had a white van.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Get you another?”

I turned back to the poster and the eyes that knew. “No, you’re all right.”

“What do you think?”

I didn’t turn around. My chest and my stomach ached, the beer making them worse, telling me I should have eaten something.