She stood on her doorstep, back hunched, shoulders rounded, and squinted at them through thick-lensed glasses. Her home-knitted cardigan, brown with hints of beige running through it, crossed over at the front, her arms clamping the garment to her. “Glenn, you say?” “Yes, madam.” Langham smiled. “Have you seen her today. Or recently?” Oliver studied her. She didn’t display body language that spoke of her withholding information. Or holding a child in her home. She looked weary, tired deep in her bones, and bewildered that a detective stood on her front path asking about a little girl. “I have not seen her for weeks. I have been worried, but there is nothing I can do. The authorities, they do not listen to me. Say it is ‘all in hand’. I do not believe them. How can it be all in hand if the child is still dirty and uncared for?” Tears filled her eyes, and Oliver cursed the fact that here was a woman who had tried to help, yet her warm heart and good intentions had seemingly been brushed away.
