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that housed her new team. ‘That Market Street traffic’s got a whole lot worse, hasn’t it?’
    Blank faces round the table. Four, five people. ‘Dr Maguire?’ The man standing at the whiteboard was tall, fair-haired, a laser-pointer in one hand. ‘Please, join us. I’m Guy Brooking. I’m with the Met Police, but acting as consultant here for a year.’
    Her new boss; the Englishman abroad. Paula sank into a plastic chair as the faces stared at her. ‘Sorry to be late. It’s just . . . the traffic’s worse than I’m used to.’
    Guy Brooking spoke smoothly. Paula stared at her bitten nails, shy of all the new people.
    ‘Now you’re here, Dr Maguire, I can introduce the team.’ He gestured fluidly round him. ‘The Missing Persons’ Review Unit was set up several months ago – you’ve read the files?’ She nodded, hoping there wouldn’t be questions. ‘Then you’ll know it came from a report into Ireland’s very high number of unsolved missing persons’ cases, and a recommendation from both sides of the border for an all-island response to the situation.’ Around her Paula felt a subtle slump in the other team members; clearly they’d heard this many times before. ‘Our role is to examine the old unsolveds, and where applicable advise the relevant local police force on reinvestigation, with the aim of successfully reducing our statistics for outstanding cases.’ The man talked like an official report. He went round the table with his laser-pointer, indicating an older man stuffed uncomfortably into a nylon suit. ‘This is my deputy, Sergeant Robert Hamilton. He’ll be taking over the operation once we’re up and running.’ The sergeant had the air of a man who’d worn uniform all his life; Paula recognised it from her father.
    ‘Avril Wright’s ourintelligence analyst, shared with the regular Police Service of Northern Ireland.’ Guy pointed to a scrubbed-looking girl. ‘She’ll be helping us out with research and data management. DC Gerard Monaghan is attached to the local PSNI station.’ Young, scowly, clearly Catholic from his name. ‘And joining us from the Garda Síochána , Fiacra Quinn. I’m sorry, is that right this time? Fay-kra ? Fiacra’s our liaison on all cases south of the border.’ Also young, pink-faced, the only one to risk a small smile at her.
    Paula quickly worked it out from the names, an unfortunate but unavoidable habit ingrained in you when you grew up along the border. They were being led by an Englishman and a Northern Ireland Protestant, probably ex-RUC. The rest consisted of a female civilian analyst (Protestant) and a male detective (Catholic), plus one from south of the border. She wondered how long it had taken someone to come up with that balance of religion, nationality, and gender. The two young men wore shirts and ties, Fiacra’s askew, un-ironed, Gerard’s in razor-cut creases over powerful arms. Avril Wright was in a neat skirt and lilac cardigan. Paula wished she’d bothered to iron her own outfit of white shirt and black trousers, what she normally wore to the office.
    ‘And everyone, thisis Paula Maguire – do you prefer Doctor?’
    ‘Er . . . Paula is fine,’ she said, floored.
    ‘Paula is a chartered forensic psychologist. She’s made quite a name for herself in a London Missing Persons’ Unit, and she’ll be working alongside us on strategy and analysis for our current caseload.’
    ‘Paperwork, you mean.’ This muttered from Gerard Monaghan. Paula gave him a look; he’d be trouble, this one.
    ‘Yes, but also some direct interviews and assessment. We’ve specifically brought Paula in for her expertise on missing teenagers – you may have seen the coverage of the Kaylee Morris case in London a few weeks ago. Paula’s insight was directly responsible for recovering that girl alive.’
    Paula smiled nervously round the table, wondering if she should say that Kaylee’s life probably hadn’t been in danger. Not then, anyway.