First, an apparently certain case. Now, a death that refuses to fit the calendar.
Her husband was three hundred miles away, with the receipts to prove it.
A life does not belong to the person who tells its story loudest.
When did Eleanor Cawley die? The calendar and the evidence seem to disagree.
The house is warm. The carpets are immaculate. The duvet has been carefully arranged.
Eleanor Cawley vanished a year ago. Now her cleaner has found her body at home.
Meet Toni Holden: twenty-three years in the job, and still unwilling to look away.
Rain on the dock road. Light on the water. A woman who never gets home.
A confession should make an investigation simpler. This one leaves Toni Holden with questions.
A DNA result can tell you something. It cannot tell you the whole story.
Kelly Traynor was thirty-one. A mother. A woman who was quick to laugh.
The evidence points to one man. A confession makes the case look complete.
DI Helen Carver does not believe in stories. Bodies do not come from nowhere.
A city has an official shape. Streets, stations, plans and passages.
The river gives him back. But the pathology does not fit.
In nineteen sixty-four, Arthur Bell went to a railway social club for his eighteenth birthday. He never came home.
Above, Manchester carries on. Below, the story goes somewhere darker.
Your friends. Your messages. The people you work with. Small things that prove you belong somewhere.
The cottage is called Crow House. It stands at the end of a dead-end track in mid-Wales.
His messages stop arriving. His friends remember him differently. His employer has no record he was there.
Below the bedroom window, a scarecrow stands in the long grass.
There is broadband. A school run. A restaurant worth travelling for.
Iwan meets Mara on a dating app. For the first time in years, someone seems to see him completely.
A flight of canal locks. A route that should be familiar.
Count the windows from the street. Then count them from inside.
The last bus to Sholver is on time. It is warm. It should be taking you home.
A mill. A night shift. Work that never seems to have ended.
A plantation above Darwen has been felled. Now the ground is giving back what was buried.
A school wall in Werneth remembers the names painted over it.
A hospital is somewhere you go to be cared for. A record is supposed to help keep you safe.
The longer Kate stays on the ward, the less the paperwork agrees she was ever admitted.
The files go to Central Review. It meets in the small hours. Nobody has ever seen it arriving.
Observation rounds. Bed management. A tannoy that gets names wrong.
The other patients know the rules. Keep your name. Answer to it. Never let the ward answer for you.
She wakes on a ward with no record she was ever admitted. A 27-second glimpse inside Ward C.
