The streets were sparsely populated. Holding a photo of the victim, Feng Xiaoling, Wang Yan and the other two went into every shop they came across and questioned everyone they met.
The cinema was not far from Feng Xiaoling's home, less than a kilometer away. There was only one shortest route from the cinema to her home; taking a detour would mean going far out of the way. It was the depths of winter, so Feng Xiaoling was unlikely to have taken a detour. Besides, the streets were not absolutely safe—everyone knew that. Feng Xiaoling was no fool, and she certainly would not have suddenly lost her mind.
The trio questioned people from morning to night, and after another half month of walking around, they had basically covered everyone who was often active in the area. But the results were far from ideal.
Too much time had passed, and people simply could not remember. If asked whether they had seen her, they would surely say they had, but if asked when they had seen her, they could not recall.
Wang Yan's group did not lose heart. They tirelessly guided people through their memories: where they had been on which day, whether they had seen Feng Xiaoling, whether there had been any suspicious-looking men, anyone carrying or hauling a woman on his back, and so on.
They paid particular attention to people whose estimated height and weight were close to those of the killer.
Yet even after all that, they still found nothing.
But fate was unpredictable, always fond of playing tricks on people.
That afternoon, the trio was still persistently questioning people on the streets, hoping to uncover some clue. Even a single lead would be enough for them to follow.
Ma Kui waved down a man riding a bicycle,