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accelerated away in the opposite direction to that which the white van had taken. There was one more stop she needed to make on the way home. She turned off Queens Road and, after a short distance, pulled over by some iron railings that enclosed a green space of lawns, trees and paths. She got out of the van and headed through a gate. She stopped by a bench shadowed by an oak tree. A small brass plaque on the bench read ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF RICK YOUNG. DIED 13TH JUNE 2003, AGED 50’. This had been her father’s favourite spot to sit and think. After Jessica’s abduction, he would come here day after day and spend hours staring out across the River Sheaf and the terraced roofs towards his beloved Bramall Lane. And one day, when all hope had finally deserted him, when he could no longer endure the endless grief, he’d come here to die. He’d tied one end of a rope around a branch and the other end around his neck. And then he’d stepped off the bench. A dog-walker had found his lifeless body.
    The council had wanted to cut down the tree, almost as if it was guilty of some crime. Anna had convinced them not to. Removing the tree would solve nothing. Just as leaving Sheffield behind to start fresh somewhere else would solve nothing. You couldn’t outrun memories. And besides, she didn’t want to. She wanted to hold onto each and every tormenting memory and use them like batteries to power her search for Jessica.
    Anna laid the roses at the base of the tree. She closed her eyes briefly, then headed back to the VW. When she got home, she found her mum sitting in the living room, staring at a framed photo of her late husband. Anna put the lilies in a vase and placed them on a table at the side of her mum’s armchair.
    Fiona Young looked up at her daughter. Deep creases spread from the corners of her sad blue eyes as she smiled.
    ‘Hello, love.’
    ‘Have you been to the cemetery?’
    Fiona nodded. ‘I waited for you until four.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I was busy. I’ve left flowers in the park.’
    Fiona’s gaze returned to the photo in which Rick and she were sitting with their faces pressed together on a balcony overlooking the sea. It was an old photo, taken on a rare family holiday to Spain. Fiona looked tanned and healthy, her blonde hair shone in the sun, her eyes twinkled with the same cheeky spark that Jessica’s had done. That spark was gone now. Nor did her hair shine or her skin glow. There was a sallowness to her complexion and a greyness to her hair that she’d long since ceased to conceal with makeup and dye. ‘Ten years,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult to believe it’s been so long.’
    Anna stooped to kiss her mum’s head, then made her way upstairs to a bedroom that obviously doubled as an office. A desk with a PC on it was squeezed in between a wardrobe and an unmade single bed. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Cardboard boxes were stacked under the window. A set of shelves sagged under the weight of books on criminal psychology, law and investigative procedures. More books lay open on the carpet, their pages marked with post-it notes. There were no pictures or photos, no ornaments, no makeup. Next to a lamp on the desk was an ashtray brimful of cigarette butts. Shrugging off her jacket, Anna picked her way through the clutter. The room had long been difficult to move around. Her mum had suggested many times that she use the spare bedroom as her office. The very thought of it made Anna shudder. After her dad’s death, her mum had finally stripped the room of Jessica’s belongings. But it would always be Jessica’s bedroom to Anna. A sacred place. A haunted place.
    As she dropped onto a chair, her elbow knocked over a tower of boxes. One burst open, scattering dozens of Red Devils keyrings across the carpet. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, gathering them up. Her conviction that Jessica’s abductors were Manchester United supporters had compelled her to visit sporting goods and memorabilia shops