Tom stepped between them, his eyes warning her to stop.

‘Sadie, it’s OK,’ he said, still facing Gabriela, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault, OK? We’re not angry. We’re just happy that you’re OK.’

‘I already called the police,’ he added under his breath. ‘She gave them a description. He was a white guy, brown hair, she didn’t remember anything else.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Gabriela asked, and Tom shrugged.

‘I didn’t want to worry you – and what would be the point? Sadie was safe, and what could you have done from the office apart from panic? I know how busy you’ve been, I didn’t want you to rush home for no reason.’

‘No reason?’

‘For God’s sake, Gabs, please calm down. It was a shock, but it’s happened and she’s OK. All right?’

He held her face in his hands before pulling her into a hug. ‘She’s OK.’ He waited a moment and then he said, ‘So, your text: what was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, pressing her nails into his back. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just all go to bed. I don’t feel hungry anymore.’

Once Tom was asleep, Gabriela got up. She could not quieten her mind, the memory of the message she’d left for Madeleine replaying in her head. The message she’d left telling Madeleine to call back, that she had something important to share, something Madeleine would really want to hear …

Someone had been listening. Someone was listening to her messages, and they had responded with their very own, delivered to her via her daughter. For hours her mind circled the reality of what had happened, and then she faced it head on, staring it in the face so that she could see it for what it was: Emsworth had had her daughter abducted. Sadie. A man she didn’t know had held Sadie’s hand and led her through the Heath, a place where Gabriela believed they were all safe, and bought her an ice cream. She imagined the invisible imprint of his hands wrapped around the cone that touched her daughter’s mouth.

She wanted to scream. No, she wanted to storm out of the door and run to Emsworth’s house and pull one of his sons from their bed and hold a knife to his neck. She wanted to watch Emsworth’s face as he saw the blood.

Calm down, she told herself, knowing such thoughts would get her nowhere. Besides, where did he live? Without her work phone, she didn’t even have his mobile number.

She pulled out her phone, opening Gmail, pressing New Message. Her fingers hovered above the keys.