Аннотация
One
There was no fly and there should have been a fly. It was that sort of room. Grey linoleum. Putty walls. Chairs and tables with tubular metal legs. But in these places there was always a fly too, zizzing slowly up and down a window pane. Up and down. Up and down. Up.
The wall at the far end was covered in whiteboards and pinboards. Names. Dates. Places. Then came:
Witnesses (which was blank).
Suspects. (Blank.)
Forensics. (Blank.)
In each case.
There were five people in the conference room of the North Riding Police HQ, and they had been staring at the boards for over an hour. DCI Simon Serrailler felt as if he had spent half his life staring at one of the photographs. The bright fresh face. The protruding ears. The school tie. The newly cut hair. The expression. Interested. Alert.
David Angus. It was eight months since he had vanished from outside the gate of his own house at ten past eight one morning.
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