Over twenty years of policing, Rachel had learned to be sceptical about ‘developments’ and ‘breakthroughs’ in a case. So often they turned out to be a bid for attention or an attempt by an investigator to push a particular agenda.

At the 8 a.m. briefing, she had managed her expectations accordingly. She was also grateful that the call to Patten had come in while she was still only on her second drink of the night. Otherwise she would have been nursing a headache, and not just the feeling of missing her right arm. Now Brickall was no longer on the Lola Jade case, she was painfully aware of his absence.

‘So,’ said Nick Furnish, a portly man in his fifties, whose ginger hair had all but gone. His shiny pink pate gleamed under the harsh lighting in the Tinworth Street meeting room. ‘Sussex Police received a report of a child being snatched yesterday afternoon, about fifteen miles from Eastwell, just over the border from Surrey, in Chilbourne. The MisPer is Chloe Atwell, aged eight. She was playing with a friend in the park, and they both had their bikes with them. The friend – Emily Taybridge, who’s ten – told police that it was getting dark, and they were just about to head home when two men appeared and grabbed Chloe, bundling her into the back of a white Transit van that was parked at the entrance to the park. She wasn’t able to give a detailed description, but one of the men was of slight build and wearing a hoody; the other was larger with a tattoo on his neck.’

Furnish wiped his head with his handkerchief, and nodded at Giles Denton to take over.

‘Clearly there are some significant similarities with the disappearance of Lola Jade Harper. The location, the girl’s age, the white van and the description of one of the men: short and of slight stature. A white Transit van was picked up by ANPR leaving the Chilbourne area shortly after Chloe was taken. The same number plate was recognised in the queue for the Portsmouth to Le Havre ferry a couple of hours later. Unfortunately, by the time Emily had been interviewed and her statement checked, that vehicle had already boarded the ferry and unloaded on the other side without us having a chance to notify the relevant border authorities. But…’ Giles Denton gave a smile that betrayed more confidence than he could possibly be feeling, ‘a yellow notice has been published by Interpol’s central bureau, and there’s every chance the vehicle will be located.’

If only the same could be said of little Chloe, thought Rachel.

Gilly Durante, an officer from the Slavery and Human Trafficking unit, said a few words, then Patten cleared his throat. ‘We’ll hold another debrief as soon as appropriate, and there’ll be a press briefing later this morning. They are bound to speculate about a link, but you know the protocol: at this point we say we can’t confirm one. In light of some recent press stories about Lola Jade, we need to keep a tight grip on this. As much as is possible where the media are concerned. DI Prince…’ he glanced sideways at Rachel, ‘you’re still investigative support officer to Surrey Police, and I’ll leave it to you and your colleagues there to share information with Sussex.’ He addressed Giles Denton. ‘Will you make sure that Sussex do the same and share any relevant intel with Surrey? We need cross-force cooperation to establish if the two cases are in fact linked.’

As they left the meeting room, Rachel hurried past the others until she had caught up with him. ‘A word, sir…’

‘Go on.’

‘Can I come and talk to you about Mark?’

‘I’m not sure that would be appropriate at this stage. Once the enquiry’s under way, perhaps, but that won’t be until the new year. You’re going to have to keep across his workload as well as your own – a big ask, I know – so you may need to take a back seat on the Harper case. For now, anyway.’

Rachel responded with a bland smile. Back seat, my arse, she thought.

---

As Patten had predicted, it didn’t take long for the national press to get hold of the news and run with it. They loved a missing child story, especially if the child in question was cute and photogenic. And they loved to think that a crime was one of a series.

DID LOLA KILLER TAKE CHLOE?

LOLA JADE GANG STRIKES AGAIN.

Underneath the inflammatory headlines was a smiley photo of Chloe Atwell, who had dark shiny hair and freckles, and was far more appealing than the glum Lola Jade. She would divert attention from Carly Wethers’ murder at least, Rachel thought, with the cynicism of more than a decade investigating serious crime.

Leila Rajavi phoned her on Wednesday, soon after the Chloe story broke. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked Rachel. ‘Do you think the same people took Lola Jade?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Rachel cautiously. ‘Why, don’t you?’

She heard a hissing sound, as though Rajavi was sucking her teeth. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think so. Lola was targeted. Whoever took her knew she was in that house. With Chloe, it seems random: they drove past a playground and snatched a child because she happened to be there.’

‘Those men could have been following Lola prior to that night, though.’

‘Maybe. I’m not saying it’s impossible.’ Rajavi sounded unconvinced.

‘Sussex are going to pass on any intelligence they get about the men in the van, so we may end up with more meat on that particular bone.’

‘Good, thanks… Anyway, I know it’s not your case, but since you were with me, I thought you might like to know we’ve had the pathology findings on Carly Wethers. Cyanosis, internal congestion and haemorrhaging consistent with deliberate suffocation. It would have taken several minutes, and required the application of some force.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Rachel. ‘Poor family. Is there an obvious suspect – an ex-partner or boyfriend?’

‘Ben’s father isn’t on the scene, lives in Ireland apparently. His alibi checks out. We’re talking to everyone else that we can, but she doesn’t seem to have had many friends or acquaintances. Not really in the inner circle of the mums’ mafia.’

Rachel spent the next couple of hours fielding the inevitable press enquiries about Chloe Atwell and the possibility that the same person took Lola Jade. When she wasn’t on the phone, she was gazing miserably at Brickall’s empty desk, and ploughing through the sort of scut admin work that she usually delegated to him. She texted him.

What are you doing, loser?

He replied ten minutes later. Watching Eurosport: now fuck off and leave me in peace.

After staring at her screen for twenty minutes without taking in a single word, Rachel could stand the ringing phone of her office phone no longer. She diverted her extension to Margaret, grabbed her kitbag from under her desk and headed to the gym. A bit of Howard was in order, she decided.

---

‘How about a live opponent?’

Rachel had been throwing punches at the bag for ten minutes, with Howard looking on. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat and her mascara was running, but she didn’t care. Hitting something felt good.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Howard, who was standing watching her.

‘You and me. Mano a mano.’

He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be a fair fight. I’m a lot heavier than you, and – no offence – a lot stronger.’

‘Oh go on…’ she wheedled. ‘Please. I want to know what it feels like.’

‘Where’s this aggression coming from? Still getting those calls?’

‘Not for a while… no, it’s work stuff. All uphill at the moment.’

Howard relented enough to put on some gloves, but only on condition that he was purely playing defence. He’d fend off her jabs, but not return them. He stripped off his tracksuit top and stood there in singlet and shorts, his heavily muscled and tanned torso like a copper sculpture under the light. At that moment Rachel wanted to drag him back to her flat and into her bed, but she couldn’t; not after so recently banishing him to the friend zone. So instead she punched him. Hard.

Howard stood with his gloves six inches from his face, parrying the blows with his wrists or the flat of his hands. They kept this up for fifteen minutes, until Rachel slumped forward, gloves on her thighs, panting.

‘Better?’ Howard enquired.

‘Much. The best alternative to therapy I know.’

She straightened up again and pulled out her mouth guard, dripping strands of drool.

‘How about a drink once we’ve showered?’ Howard asked, with his disarming smile.

‘Remember what happened the last time I saw you after consuming alcohol?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘Just as friends. I know my place.’

‘Another time, I’d love to. But officially I’m still at work, and I’ve got stuff to do.’

As she left the gym and walked back towards Tinworth Street, her phone rang.

No Caller ID.

Enough was enough. She searched her web browser for her mobile network’s customer service number and phoned them then and there, in the freezing street. They had a procedure for tracking nuisance calls, a sympathetic female operator told her, but the process took two to three weeks. In the meantime, they suggested picking up the call and telling whoever was on the other end that they had been reported and that the mobile company always gave information about offenders to the police.

‘We find that usually does the trick,’ the woman told her cheerfully.

No sooner had she hung up than she had the chance to put this advice into action, because her phone rang immediately. Only this time, although the number was an unfamiliar one, it had not been withheld.

‘Yes?’ Rachel was aware she sounded snappy.

‘Is that Detective Inspector Prince?’

‘It is.’

‘This is Nancy Poole. From Eastwell library.’

‘How can I help you?’ She modulated her tone to sound more user-friendly.

‘I think I can help you,’ said Nancy. ‘We’ve found out who was sending those messages.’