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was on one of the routes she might have taken, the inspector embarked on a lengthy series of questions about the night before. What time exactly had Garvie gone to Old Ditch Road? What route had he taken? What had he seen? Where had he run to when the police arrived? Mostly Garvie answered ‘Can’t remember,’ or simply shrugged. Once or twice he ignored the question.
    Gradually, as the interview went on, Inspector Singh’s quiet, careful voice became less quiet and careful.
    â€˜Perhaps you can explain what you were doing at Old Ditch Road last night,’ he said.
    â€˜Perhaps you can explain the link between what I was doing and what’s happened to Chloe,’ Garvie replied.
    â€˜Garvie,’ his mother said, but mildly, ‘try to answer the inspector’s questions.’
    â€˜What’s the point? They’re the wrong questions.’ He sat up and leaned forward, and looked directly at Singh. ‘How do you know she went jogging at all?’
    â€˜We know.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜She left a note.’
    â€˜How do you know she didn’t just leave it to throw people like you off the scent?’
    Singh said nothing. But his face tightened.
    Garvie went on. ‘How do you know she left it? How do you know she left when you think she did? How do you know she didn’t leave the note then change her mind?’
    Singh remained impassive, but a muscle jumped in his left cheek.
    â€˜ They’re the right sort of questions,’ Garvie said. ‘Seems to me.’
    After a moment’s cold silence the inspector began to talk – perhaps a little faster than before – about the nature of police work, which was no doubt obscure to members of the general public – but Garvie immediately interrupted him with a casual wave of his hand. ‘Listen, man. I know all this already. My uncle works with the police. Forensics.’ He looked at Singh and, pointedly, at the insignia on his sleeves. ‘High up,’ he added.
    Singh suddenly stood, and Garvie allowed himself a little smile. His mother gave him a quick, fierce look and he knew what was coming to him later. But it had been worth it.
    Mrs Smith got to her feet. ‘I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, Inspector,’ she said.
    For a moment the man stood there, perfectly still; then, without changing his expression, he thanked Garvie’s mother for the opportunity of asking her son his questions.
    â€˜By the way,’ he added (his voice now as calm and quiet as at the beginning), ‘two grammes of cannabis were taken off Liam Fricker at Old Ditch Road last night.’ Turning back to Garvie, he fixed him with that deliberate stare. ‘You told me what you were doing wasn’t illegal. It was. It’s my job to ensure you don’t break the law. It’s your mother’s to explain why smoking weed is bad for you and I’ll leave her to do that now.’
    Then he turned and walked away, and Mrs Smith went after him to the door.
    Garvie stayed where he was, staring at the kitchen table. He didn’t like the way the conversation had ended. He’d been outplayed by Inspector Smudgy-Turban Singh. Hearing the front door close and his mother’s footsteps coming back slowly and heavily across the living room, he braced himself.
    There was a long silence. When he finally lifted his eyes she wasn’t even looking at him. She was fiddling with the radio, a distracted look on her face. Quietly he got to his feet and began to drift towards his room in that apparently idle way that she—
    He was halted by the local news coming on suddenly. Police were looking for fifteen-year-old Chloe Dow, a popular student at the Marsh Academy and a promising athlete, who had disappeared the night before.
    His mother stood there listening, her hand up to her mouth and, despite himself, Garvie listened too.
    Search teams were combing the east of the city and outlying