My mother grabbed the paper from Aunty Madge, turning the inside pages until she came to the Births and Deaths.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Is Dad in?” said Susan.

“No. Must be tomorrow,” replied my mother, looking at me with those sad, sad eyes.

“Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional plea this morning for the safe return of her daughter.” My Aunt Edie from Altrincham had the paper now.

Emotional fucking pleas.

“By Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent. Well I say,” read Aunty Margaret over my Aunt Edie’s shoulder.

All around the room everyone began assuring me how proud my father would have been and how it was just such a pity he wasn’t here now to witness this great day, my great day.

“I read all stuff you did on that Ratcatcher bloke,” Uncle Eric was saying. “Strange one that one.”

The Ratcatcher, inside pages, crumbs from Jack fucking Whitehead’s table.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling and nodding my head this way and that, picturing my father sat in this empty chair by the cupboard reading the back page first.

There were pats on the back and then, for one brief moment, the paper was there in my hands and I looked down:

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.

I didn’t read another line.

Off the paper went again round the room, I saw my sister across the room sat on the windowsill, her eyes dosed, her hands to her mouth.

She opened her eyes and stared back at me. I tried to stand, to go over to her, but she stood up and left the room.

I wanted to follow her, to say:

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m sorry that it had to happen today of all days.

“We’ll be asking him for his autograph soon, won’t we,” laughed Aunty Madge, passing me a fresh cup.

“He’ll always be Little Eddie to me,” said Aunt Edie from Altrincham.