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Rowan licks his lips.Has it been that bad? How long has she been gone now? Jeren ducked the blade by instinct, pitching herself to the ground only to roll upright again. Rowan sighs, ignoring him. Vicky begins to turn around but Rowan shakes his head. He wants to hear more. Doesnt want her to get distracted. Rowan sits back.Ah, he says. “Im with you. His hand found her legs. She nearly jumped away before she realised it was him.Here. The darkness was crushing the life from him, his voice breathy, his great frame pressed to the ground, but still he pushed himself on. “Take it, Jeren. You need to see. The note of the Fellnas pleasure changed, sharpening to suffering. The Enchassas stroking fingertips stopped at his throat and closed on him, barbs of steel. What has happened? Where is she? His eyes lit up.Thanks. I said show me. Not tell me. I held out the phone.Its Calvin. He says its an emergency. Rosie nods.As much as she could, anyway. Ill let you know when it comes to me, smiles Rowan. Either way, shes very high on the list. And we need to know more about Derrick Millward, about the school, who worked there, what they remember. Lightning lit up the sky, and rain began to fall as I stomped toward the hill. Everything inside me was turning upside down as memories filled my mind. The dam broke, and emotions flowed through me like tsunamis, ripping and tearing at the fabric of my sanity. I swung open the gate, fell to my knees on his grave, and pounded the ground with my fists. Tears fell, mixing with the rain as I began to scream. Its what they expect. Its another form of honour, concerning the message I convey to them by my presence alone, the image I project from the moment they see me. I have a couple of things in my pack. Will you help? Bloody hell, could you shout up? Rowan is currently neck-deep in the digital archive of the Cumberland and Westmoreland Gazette: a database of words and images so old-fashioned that Rowan confidently expects to see actual footage from the thawing of the last ice age. Hes typed any amount of keywords and dates into the tiny little search facility but its still a mixed bag of offerings. Hes found the original article printed on the Saturday after the girls went missing: early November, 1991. They aren’t named in the article and the Detective Sergeant quoted as being concerned for their welfare is an Evelyn Cater of Whitehaven CID. There’s no byline on the story. The next piece is from three days later. It’s accompanied by an image of a small, wiry man with thick black hair, small eyes and an impeccably smart suit. His name is given as Derrick Millward. The still vastness of Wast Water takes up the background: divers in dinghies emerging, golem-like, from the thick mud of the water’s edge. Rowan scans the text and smiles, gratefully, as he recognises the name of the writer. Chris Gardner was working as a sub-editor at the North West Evening Mail when Rowan started out. He was a quiet, diligent chap who’d eschewed the lure of London in favour of a quiet life, a steady job and a nice house just outside Millom, which he planned to share with his wife and their then baby daughter. Last time he saw him was at the funeral of an old editor they had in common. Chris’s wife had died of breast cancer three years before, he’d been made redundant from the Mail, and the house had halved in value due to a subsidence problem and the rumour of Japanese knotweed in the back garden. Chris was bearing up under the strain of it all. He believed there were people who had it worse. Rowan wasn’t sure who..