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Millie had guessed right. Mariner spoke from personal experience. He’d done it himself when he couldn’t face another night of coming home to the Spanish Inquisition. His mother had taken his popularity with girls particularly hard. Although he had vague memories of the occasional short-term ‘uncle’ early on, latterly it had just been the two of them and, as Mariner grew, the dynamics of dependency had shifted as his mother had discarded the other facets of her life to concentrate on him. Her whole life became dedicated to her only child and, at the time when other parents were letting go, Mariner’s mother clutched on with increasing desperation, until finally he had to take the initiative and break away completely. So instead of getting the bus to school one day, on an impulse he’d caught the train to Birmingham and gone to look for a job. Except for brief visits he’d never gone back.
    ‘If what Suzanne told us is right though, it sounds as if everything wasn’t as rosy in the Akram household as we were led to believe,’ he said now.
    ‘You think she was telling us the truth?’
    ‘It would account for the tension between Mr and Mrs Akram, wouldn’t it? I thought he was just annoyed that his wife had contacted us before telling him. And having left her in charge it may be natural to hold her responsible. But if she’d gone against his wishes as well . . . Let’s go and see what we can pick up at home.’
     
    The two uniformed officers who were to help with the preliminary search met them at the Akrams’ house, which turned out to be a detached red-brick, large and imposing, built at around the turn of the last century. It was the home of successful people. With the shrinking of the nuclear family, these houses were normally too big to fulfil a useful purpose as a family home and several of the properties on this street displayed boards to indicate their conversion to business hotels and retirement residences. The Akrams’ property was set back from the road behind a five-foot high decorative wall; the entire front of the house shaded by a dark umbrella of chestnut trees, creating a cool oasis of relief from the heat. Grandma, an elderly woman in white mengha , came to the door, her eyes watery, whether from age or from weeping it was hard to say.
    ‘ Salaam Allah Kouom ,’ Millie smiled, knowing that she spoke little English.
    The old lady nodded. ‘ Walaik um-asalaam .’
    Millie explained in Urdu the reason for their visit. Scrutinising Mariner’s ID, the old woman nodded wordlessly and indicated that they should follow her. Akram had phoned ahead to let her know they were coming. She led them through the house. Cool and dark with high ceilings, it was neat and tidy and deathly quiet in the absence of anyone else.
    Leaving the rest of the house to the uniforms, Mariner and Millie focused their efforts on Yasmin’s bedroom on the first floor. It was comfortably furnished, the décor in feminine pastels, but without extravagance. The giant desk that took up most of the room was clutter-free beneath a solid shelf of reference books, and there was no CD player, TV nor any of the other usual electronic paraphernalia that most kids were reported to have these days. Half a dozen cuddly toys were neatly arranged on the bed and a further shelf displayed a number of photographs, including a formal family group, presumably taken at her older sister’s wedding. Millie picked up the photograph to verify this with Grandma. The two women embarked on an animated conversation, during which Millie successfully shepherded Grandma back downstairs, leaving Mariner to continue the search unobserved.
    Yasmin’s hair brushes were neatly aligned on the dressing table. If they were going to need DNA . . . Mariner refused to let his mind move along that track. A small jewellery box contained a few simple gold chains and bracelets. Checking in the drawers, her clothes were neatly folded. The only hidden treasure Mariner