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Stacey was still thinking about the talent show once the office had emptied around her. Penn’s effort had been a dud so the pressure was on her and Bryant.

There was no time in her life when she had done anything to perform or seek out attention. She’d had enough scrutiny as one of the only two black kids in her class. When the time had come for school plays or concerts, she’d been sure to scrunch herself up to near invisibility to avoid being chosen. Even on holiday, at Pontins in Rhyl, she had refused to get on stage or take part in anything that drew the attention of an audience.

Added to that, she had absolutely no skill or talent to showcase. She’d spent the night watching old auditions of Britain’s Got Talent and even then, after watching a guy make portraits from toast and a woman knitting to music, she’d come up empty.

There had been no subject at school she had excelled at.

‘Ooh, hang on,’ she said to an empty room.

There had been one thing at which she’d beaten every other girl in her street. Whether or not she could still do it remained to be seen. But she had something to demonstrate, which was all the boss had demanded of her. A quick trip out at lunchtime and she’d be good to go.

‘Okay, flipper, where are you?’

She opened the folder holding the pictures Mitch had sent to her. He had photographed the fake teeth from every angle and circled a tiny emblem on the underside of the upper-right molar.

Zooming in, she could make out a P and an S.

She turned to Google and told it exactly what she wanted.

Her search for ‘baby false teeth manufacturers’ brought up a dozen or so names. Her attention was instantly grabbed by a company called Perfect Smile, which featured a crown-wearing pageant child on its first page.

She scrolled down to the contact details to find they were based in Rotherham. No quick visit then, she thought, dialling the number.

The phone was answered by a polite female by the name of Donna, offering to help.

‘Hello, there, this is Detective Constable Stacey Wood at West Mids police. I wonder if you can help me.’

‘I’ll certainly try,’ Donna said brightly, as though she received calls from the police every day.

‘I have a denture for a child – I think you call it a flipper. I need to try and confirm the identity of the child it was made for.’

‘Okay, if you can just give me the serial number?’

Stacey had seen no such number on the photos.

‘Where might I find that?’

‘It’s underneath at the back.’

Stacey went through every photo she had. ‘There’s no number.’

‘Ah, then we have a problem.’

‘Could the serial number have worn off?’ Stacey asked, wondering if there was some kind of forensic procedure Mitch could employ to make it visible.

‘Unlikely. It would take an excessive amount of wear for that to happen. Most likely it predates 2019.’

‘Go on,’ Stacey said.

‘We only started engraving and recording numbers a few years ago. All those records are computerised and searchable.’

‘And do you have records for ones you made before that year?’

‘Well, kind of. We have paper records in the basement.’

Stacey was trying to hang on to the last shred of hope. ‘But there are records?’

‘Officer, we produce thousands of flippers every year. Our records prior to 2019 would number somewhere around twenty to twenty-five thousand. Even if you had dental records, you’d still have to search to find a match.’

Stacey thanked her for her time and ended the call.

When trying to match up the glass slipper, Prince Charming had at least had a place to start.