“Concern is mounting for missing art student, Jemma Stevens. The twenty-two-year-old from Stoke Newington failed to return home after going out on Monday . . .” No last sighting was mentioned. No mention of the hair parcel either, although word of it must have spread—he had no doubt this was driving the media interest. Hampstead station leaked like a sieve. Journalists knew it was going to be box office. But they were acting well behaved for now and holding back on details. They gave Northwood’s name as senior investigator. Belsey turned the radio off, called a trusted glazier, then drove back towards the station. He stopped for coffee at a place with vintage furniture and china teacups, ate a croissant and thought. Duncan Powell’s published works had made him conscious of quite how large a world he had entered, swept into a current of unfinished history that nineteen years of criminal investigation had not prepared him for. Powell never made it home. Nor had Argyle. Argyle, a former chief of the defence staff.
