Inside the theatre, while Amelia was lost down her rabbit hole and Rex Russell was yet to move away from the wall he cowered against, Karin and Beth fought to reach the opposite side of the auditorium. A small group had gathered and, every so often, someone would build up the courage to break cover and make a run towards the exit near the stage. Onlookers felt a surge of hope whenever someone disappeared beneath the green exit sign without being hit by the falling debris that suggested another collapse was imminent.

‘We have to go! Now!’ Beth urged.

Karin nodded and they set off at speed, or Karin would have if the old lady hadn’t manoeuvred herself directly between her and Beth. Karin put a hand the woman’s shoulder as encouragement. They would make it together.

As they raced into danger, Karin could feel every muscle tensing, and only the old lady dared to look around them. Terrified by what she saw, she stumbled and grabbed hold of Beth’s sleeve. Karin strained her ears for the telltale creak of disintegrating rafters, and that was when she heard someone calling out. It was a voice she recognised.

7

In the absence of any breakthroughs to identify Amelia’s rescuer, Leanne avoided Mal as much as possible. He wanted his hero headline, if not for this weekend’s edition, then in time for the commemorative issue due out on the Saturday before the anniversary. It didn’t look promising, and the only way Leanne could appease her editor was to feed him other stories of bravery so he wouldn’t ask too many questions about what other lines of inquiry Leanne might be pursuing.

‘I’m sure my daughter made it sound more than it was,’ Mrs Brody said modestly as she handed Leanne a mug of tea. ‘I was on my own, you see. Our Rachel couldn’t come because she was eight and a half months pregnant. Not that I mind going out by myself, I’m never on my own for long, and on that night, we all stuck together.’

‘Are you OK to talk about it?’

Mrs Brody dropped down onto the sofa opposite. ‘Ask away.’

During their brief chat on the phone, Leanne had imagined Mrs Brody to be a doddery old woman, but the reality was very different. At seventy-three, Carole was the new generation of pensioner who had hit puberty in the sixties and wouldn’t be seen dead in a twinset and pearls. Her hair was silver with purple highlights, her make-up provided a youthful glow, and her figure was enviable. She had informed Leanne that she had to leave by three o’clock for her Zumba class. She reminded Leanne of her nan, who told tales of swooning over the Rolling Stones, and it gave her a surge of homesickness.

Leanne opened her voice recorder. ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me where you were sitting, Mrs Brody.’