Wednesday 9 January 1985.

Reg Makepeace lit another cigarette with hands that didn’t quite hide their tiredness.

His wife, Jill, wanted him to give up. He’d promised her he would. He’d tried, half-heartedly, a couple of times. But not now. Not in this cold.

The breath he exhaled came out whiter than the smoke.

Uniformed officers moved in a slow sweep along the towpath, shoulders hunched against the chill. Somewhere along this stretch, Karen Carter had disappeared.

Reg looked back towards the rows of terraced houses on Bishop Street. Brenda Carter’s place was one of them—small, cramped, over-warm with the heating turned up too high in worry.

Brenda had told them the story twice, once to the constables, once again to Reg.

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