“I don’t think they’ll ever find a body,” I whispered.

I wanted to go back to the Ridyards and apologise. I thought of Kathryn.

The barman said, “You what?”

“You got a phone?”

“There,” smiled the fat barman, pointing to my elbow.

I didn’t fucking care. I turned my back again.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Look. About last night, I…”

“Eddie, thank God. There’s a press conference at Wakefield Police Station at three.”

“You’re fucking joking? Why?”

“They’ve found her.”

“Shit.”

“Hadden’s been looking…”

“Fuck!”

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door of the Huntsman.

Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.

· 59 PM

One minute to kick-off.

Me, up the stairs and through the one door, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman through the other.

The Conference Room horror-show quiet.

Oldman, flanked by two plainclothes, sitting down behind a table and a microphone.

Down the front, Gilman, Tom, New Face, and JACK FUCKING WHITEHEAD.

Eddie Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, at the back, behind the TV lights and cameras, technicians whis pering about bloody fucking cables.

Jack fucking Whitehead on my fucking story.

Cameras flashed.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman, looking lost, a stranger in this station, in these times:

But these were his people, his times.

He swallowed and began:

“Gentlemen. At approximately nine thirty this morning, the body of a young girl was discovered by workmen in Devil’s Ditch here in Wakefield.”

He took a sip of water.

“The body has been identified as that of Clare Kemplay, who went missing on her way home from school in Morley on Thursday night.”

Notes, take fucking notes.

“At the present time, the actual cause of death has not been determined. However, a full scale murder investigation has been launched. This investigation is being led by myself from here at Wood Street.”