Bill was in a dark mood. Joe hadn't come home at all last night and now it was the next day and they still hadn't heard of him. The useless boy was probably staying with a friend or drunk by the roadside somewhere and all would be well, but it was still ruining Bill's free day. Especially because Lottie had been ab-so-lute-ly insufferable this morning, until she had left without a word with her basket on her arm to God knew where.

Bill had decided he'd go out looking for the boy again. If they found the him, he could still relax a little. After he had strangled Joe. 

Ok, and he was beginning to get a little worried too. 

He had found Miss Carrington's address by asking around and had knocked on the door, but nobody had answered. He wanted to avoid the Carrington manor itself for as long as he could, because he didn't know how much they knew and he did not want to make enemies in those circles. 

Instead, he went to the police station again. Not a place he liked to come, as it brought back some dark and frightening memories. Curse Joe! He'd have his hide! Bill went straight up to the desk and waited for someone to come to help him.

The golden brown, flakey, pastie goodness was tempting Bert. Soon. Willoughbys did excellent sweets, but their pies had been too crunchy of late for Bert who had got his savouries elsewhere. Of course, taking his custom to another shop meant he missed that O'Connor woman. Bert kept thinking about her too, to the dereliction of his duty.

The Sargent was doing a one fingered dance with a typewriter, creating an annoying racket. A middle aged man with a tired face appeared at the counter. Bert covered the pasty with an old duty roster.

"Can I help you, sir?"

He hoped not, and yet he hoped so. "Aye. Me son hasn't come home last night, and I was wonderin' if he's gotten into some trouble. Joseph Blacke is his name..."

Bert scanned the large charge book with it's catalogue of criminality.

"Joseph Blacke? Joseph Blacke. He's not a wee young lad apprehended for pinching root veg from Stakesby Vale, Age about 8?"

Bill held his breath until the constable repeated his son's name. But then he shook his head. "No, he's eighteen." And at the moment the crime of getting involved with the Carrington lass seemed worse to him than stealing some crop off a field.

"18 then?" Bert's eyes scanned the scribbles that recorded the villainy for all time. "I'm afraid not, sir. We're not holdin' anyone by that name. If you'll excuse me for just a moment, Mr. Blacke." Bert moved away from the counter to confer with his superior. His tone was a little quieter.

"Sarge, a gent is here looking for his son, a Joseph Blacke. Where is the current missing persons book?"

The senior policeman paused his battle with this new typewriting contraption and pointed to a leather bound volume lying nearby. Bert retrieved it and returned to the front counter.

"This is the missing persons book, Mister Blacke." Bert scanned its most recent pages. Lots of young kids, but no 18 year olds. "He's not 'ere either. There is probably no cause for alarm, sir. I mean he is a young lad, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you that young lads do silly things at that age. Would you still like to file a report?"

Bill chewed the corner of his mouth while waiting for the constable to return. He stared down at the book and a little shiver traveled down his spine. His own name was in a book like that in North Shields.

When the constable returned and offered to write Joe down as a missing person, Bill shook his head. "No, thank ye. Yer probably right. I'll come back tomorrow if he's not back. Thank you."

"Very good, sir." Bert answered closing the book. "Have a nice day, sir." Bert uncovered the pastry as Mister Blacke retired. Tasty.

That evening, another worried father stepped into the police station. Ben had calmed down throughout the day. He still felt Anne shouldn't have accepted the corset from Mrs. Blacke, but he did feel some guilt for the shouting at he had given her, for part of that anger had been directed at Mrs. Blacke and at himself.

When Anne hadn't come home for tea, Ben had started to worry, and had gone to check Rose's and Maggie's. Not finding them there, he and the children had walked around town, looking for her, and he had sent a telegraph to Castleton, though it probably wouldn't reach Alice and Tobias until the morning. It was two hours later now, and there was still no trace of Anne. Ben was very anxious now. What if she had run away again - all by herself this time? What if she had done herself harm? He had upset her so. What if she was in bad company?

Ben approached the desk.

Bert was still behind the counter. The public face of crime prevention in Whitby. His golden pasty was long gone, Bert was thinking on dinner when the gruff, maritime type approached.

"Can I help you, sir?"