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circles she hung around in.”
    More frantic scribbling of pens. A few sneaky iPhone snaps of Brian.
    Again, Brian cleared his throat. Considered his words. He never liked writing speeches out. Never was a great writer. All good words came from the truth, anyway. Words were just lies. Fancified versions of reality. “What I can say is that we’re working very, very hard to identify this girl. But we believe with the cooperation of your newspapers, your media outlets, and therefore the public, we could greatly cut down the potential time of this investigation. The girl, she’s…‌she’s anything between late teens and early twenties. She’s blonde. And while I can’t disclose much more just yet, I…‌She has a birthmark. A birthmark the size of a brazil nut under her left eye.”
    Brian heard his voice echoing around the room and fast realised how ridiculous he sounded. He should just wait for the pathology and forensics results to come in. Much better than a shot in the dark about some brazil nut-sized mole. Fuck. He’d look a fool. He’d look an absolute idiot.
    Brian opened his dry mouth and went to say something else. But no words came out. His mind had frozen. He didn’t know what else to say. Did he mention the pink hat? Ask anyone who had shopped at African Connection to step forward?
    No. That would be a PR disaster. A huge mistake should it lead nowhere.
    But the Moya family. Yemi Moya. He was a convicted killer, rapist, abductor. If something leaked about the potential link between Yemi Moya and this girl, there would be chaos. Because Yemi Moya was supposed to be dead. His sins were supposed to be a thing of the past.
    And now here was another victim, wearing a pink hat, just like little Harry Brydle when he was found.
    Brian loosened his tie some more as voices started to pick up in the press room. Whispering became talking. Passing glances between rival journalists became elongated stares of puzzlement.
    “I…‌That’s all I can give you for now. Like I said when this meeting started, this is a press appeal. An appeal for any morsel of information you might have. We’ve set up a line that will be provided to each of you at the end of the conference to put in your papers and on the news. A way of gathering information about who this girl might be.” He wanted to say “We wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate”, but he pictured Marlow’s reddening face if he said those words.
    Another pause. Another halt.
    Brian took a deep breath.
    “Does anybody have any questions?”
    A barrage of voices sparked up. Clashing words, inaudible sentences. He watched as the journalists rose to their feet, then eventually sorted themselves out and just a few of them remained standing.
    Brian pointed at the blonde, middle-aged woman in a black blazer and white shirt.
    “Dara Langton from the Manchester Evening News,” she said. She looked down at her iPad. “Please can you just confirm for me the facts here: a murder happened under the public’s nose and the police haven’t even been able to figure out who the victim is yet? Haven’t been able to inform the victim’s family?”
    A lingering pause. A silence around the room.
    Brian bit his lip. Shit. He should never have asked this frumpy bitch to speak. “You’re correct that we’re still in the process of identifying the victim,” Brian said. “However we’re going to press because we believe the press’s cooperation‌—‌the public’s cooperation‌—‌could be of great assistance in a high-profile case like this.”
    Dara nodded her head. Tapped on her iPad screen. This damn technology.
    “So you’re saying there’s a killer still out there? A killer still out there who could just repeat his act?”
    This voice was a deeper one. A man’s voice. Brian looked to Dara’s right. Saw a guy with dark, slicked-back hair and beady eyes. Sweat dripped down his head. So it wasn’t just Brian who was boiling in this room.
    “No, I don’t