A strangled cough, then silence.

I looked up.

Mrs Kemplay had her hands to her mouth, her eyes closed.

Mr Kemplay stood up and then sat back down, as Oldman said:

“Gentlemen, I have given you all the information we have at the moment and I’m afraid we haven’t got time to take any questions right now. We’ve scheduled another press conference for five, unless there are any developments before then. Thank you gentlemen.”

Chairs scraped, papers rustled, murmurs became mutters, whispers words.

Any developments, fuck.

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

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman stood up and turned to go but no-one else at the table moved. He turned back into the glare of the TV lights, nodding at journalists he couldn’t see.

“Thank you, lads.”

I looked down at the notebook again, the wheels still turning the tape, seeing any developments face down in a ditch in an orange waterproof kagool.

I looked back up, the other detective was lifting Mr Kemplay up by his elbow and Oldman was holding open the side door for Mrs Kemplay, whispering something to her, making her blink.

“Here you go.” A heavy detective in a good suit was passing along copies of the school photograph.

I felt a nudge. It was GUman again.

“Doesn’t look so fucking good does it?”

“No,” I said, Clare Kemplay’s face smiling up at me.

“Poor cow. What must she be going through, eh?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, my wrist cold.

“Here, you’d better fuck off hadn’t you.”

“Yeah.”

The M1, Motorway One, South from Leeds to Ossett.

Pushing my father’s Viva a fast sixty in the rain, the radio rocking to the Rollers’ Shcmg-a-lang.

Seven odd miles, chanting the copy like a mantra: