I''m going to say this now, before we get started. You won''t like it, but trust me, I''ve done this more times than I care to punish myself remembering. In a case like this - a kid - nine times out of ten it''s someone close to home. Family, friend, neighbour, someone in the community. Don''t forget that. However distraught they look, however unlikely it seems, they know who did it. Perhaps not consciously, and perhaps not yet. But they know.

They know. * * * 20 July 2016, 2.05 a.m. Canal Manor estate, Oxford They say homebuyers make up their mind about a house within thirty seconds of going inside. Well, take it from me, the average police officer takes less than ten. In fact, most of us have come to judgement long before we''re through the door. Only it''s the people we''re judging, not the property.

So when we pull up outside 5 Barge Close, I have a pretty good idea what to expect. It''s what used to be called an ''Executive Home''. Perhaps still is, for all I know. They have money, these people, but not as much as they''d like, or else they''d have bought a genuine Victorian house and not this reproduction version on a raw new estate the wrong side of the canal. It''s the same red brick, the same bay windows, but the gardens are small and the garages huge - not so much fake as downright forgery. The uniform posted at the front door tells me the family have already done the obligatory search of the house and garden. You''d be amazed how many times we find kids under beds or in wardrobes. They''re not lost, they''re just hiding.

And most of those stories don''t have happy endings either. But it seems that''s not what we''re dealing with here. As the Duty Inspector told me an hour ago when he woke me up, ''I know we wouldn''t normally call you in this early, but this late at night, a kid that young, it feels all wrong. And the family were having a party so people had started looking for her long before they called us. I decided pissing you off was the least of our worries.'' I''m not, actually. Pissed off, that is. And to be honest, I''d have done the same.

''Out the back''s a bombsite, I''m afraid, sir,'' says the PC at the door. ''People must''ve been traipsing up and down all night. Bits of dead firework everywhere. Kids. Can''t see forensics getting sod all out there, sir.'' Great, I think. Effing fantastic. Gislingham rings the bell and we stand at the door, waiting.

He''s shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Doesn''t matter how many times you do it, you never get used to it. And when you do, it''s time to quit. I take a few last gasps of fag and look back round the close. Despite the fact that it''s two in the morning, almost every house is glaring with light, and there are people at several of the upstairs windows. Two patrol cars are parked on the scrubby bike-tracked grass opposite, their lights throbbing, and a couple of tired PCs are trying to keep the rubberneckers at a decent distance. There are half a dozen other officers on doorsteps, talking to the neighbours. Then the front door opens and I swing round.

''Mrs Mason?'' She''s heavier than I''d expected. Jowls already forming and she can''t be more than, what, mid-thirties? She has a cardigan on over a party dress - a halter-neck leopard-print job in a dull orangey colour that doesn''t go with her hair. She glances down the street and then wraps the cardy tighter about herself. But it''s hardly cold. It touched ninety today. ''DI Adam Fawley, Mrs Mason. May we come in?'' ''Can you take your shoes off? The carpet''s only just been cleaned.'' I''ve never understood why people buy cream carpet, especially if they have children, but it hardly seems the moment to argue.

So we bend over like a couple of schoolkids, undoing our laces. Gislingham flashes me a look: there are hooks by the door labelled with the family''s names, and their shoes are lined up by the mat. By size. And colour. Jesus. Odd, though, what exposing your feet does to your brain. Padding about in socks makes me feel like an amateur. It''s not a good start.

The sitting room has an archway through to a kitchen with a breakfast bar. There are some women in there, whispering, fussing about the kettle, their party make-up bleak in the unflinching neon light. The family are perched on the edge of a sofa far too big for the space. Barry Mason, Sharon and the boy, Leo. The kid stares at the floor, Sharon stares at me, Barry''s all over the place. He''s got up like the identikit hipster dad - cargo pants, slightly too spiky hair, slightly too garish floral shirt not tucked in - but if the look is landlocked at thirty-five, I''m guessing from the grey he''s actually a good ten years older than his wife. Who evidently buys the trousers in this house. You get all sorts of emotions when a kid goes missing.

Anger, panic, denial, guilt. I''ve seen them all, alone and in combination. But there''s a look on Barry Mason''s face I''ve not seen before. A look I can''t define. As for Sharon, her fists are clenched so rigid her knuckles are white. I sit down. Gislingham doesn''t. I think he''s worried the furniture might not take his weight.

He eases his shirt collar away from his neck, hoping no one notices. ''Mrs Mason, Mr Mason,'' I begin. ''I understand this must be a difficult time, but it''s vital we gather as much information as we can. I''m sure you know this already, but the first few hours really are crucial - the more we know, the more likely it''ll be that we find Daisy safe and well.'' Sharon Mason pulls at a loose thread on her cardigan. ''I''m not sure what else we can tell you - we already spoke to that other officer - '' ''I know, but perhaps you can just talk me through it again. You said Daisy was at school today as usual and after that she was here in the house until the party started - she didn''t go out to play?'' ''No. She was in her bedroom upstairs.

'' ''And the party - can you tell me who came?'' Sharon glances at her husband, then at me. ''People from the close. The children''s classmates. Their parents.'' Her kids'' friends then. Not hers. Or theirs. ''So, what - forty people? Would that be fair?'' She frowns.

''Not so many. I have a list.'' ''That would be very helpful - if you could give it to DC Gislingham.'' Gislingham looks up briefly from his notebook. ''And you last saw Daisy when exactly?'' Barry Mason still hasn''t said anything. I''m not even sure if he heard me. I turn to him. He''s got a toy dog in his hands and keeps twisting it.

It''s distress, I know, but it looks unnervingly like he''s wringing its neck. ''Mr Mason?'' He blinks. ''I dunno,'' he says dully. ''Elevenish maybe? It was all a bit confused. Busy. You know, lots of people.'' ''But it was midnight when you realized she was missing.'' ''We decided it was time the kids went to bed.

People were starting to leave. But we couldn''t find her. We looked everywhere. We called everyone we could think of. My little girl - my beautiful little girl - '' He starts to cry. I still find that hard to handle, even now. When men weep. I turn to Sharon.

''Mrs Mason? What about you? When did you last see your daughter? Was it before or after the fireworks?'' Sharon shivers suddenly. ''Before, I think.'' ''And the fireworks started when?'' ''Ten. As soon as it got dark. We didn''t want them going on too late. You can get in trouble. They can report you to the council.'' ''So you last saw Daisy before that.

Was it in the garden or in the house?'' She hesitates, frowning. ''In the garden. She was running about all night. Quite the belle of the ball.'' I wonder, in passing, how long it is since I''ve heard anyone use that phrase. ''So Daisy was in good spirits - nothing worrying her, as far as you knew?'' ''No, nothing. She was having a lovely time. Laughing.

Dancing to the music. What girls do.'' I glance at the brother, interested in his reaction. But there is none. He is sitting remarkably still. Considering. ''When did you last see Daisy, Leo?'' He shrugs. He doesn''t know.

''I was watching the fireworks.'' I smile at him. ''Do you like fireworks?'' He nods, not quite meeting my eye. ''You know what? So do I.'' He glances up and there''s a little flutter of connection, but then his head drops again and he starts pushing one foot across the rug, making circles in the shagpile. Sharon reaches out and taps him on the leg. He stops. I turn to Barry again.

''And the side gate to the garden was open, I believe.'' Barry Mason sits back, suddenly defensive. He sniffs loudly and wipes his hand across his nose. ''Well, you can''t be up and down opening the door every five minutes, can you? It was easier to have people come in that way. Less mess in the house.'' He glances at his wife. I nod. ''Of course.

I see the garden backs on to the canal. Do you have a gate on to the towpath?'' Barry Mason shakes his head. ''Fat chance - council won''t let you. There''s no way he got in that way.'' ''He?'' He looks away again. ''Whoever it was. The bastard who took her. The bastard who took my Daisy.

'' I write ''my'' on my notepad and put a question mark next to it. ''But you didn''t actually see a man?'' He takes a deep breath that breaks int.