‘No need to worry. I’ll tell her to give you a call. When did you last speak to her?’

‘Not for a month.’

‘Any idea where she might have been?’

‘Not in the UK. I know that much. We had another man calling up looking for her just yesterday. He couldn’t get in touch with her either.’

This didn’t feel like good news. The individual was someone who shared my anxiety or it was a professional hunt. Neither great, but a lead.

‘Did he leave a name?’ I asked. ‘Maybe we can pool resources.’

‘Hang on … Patrick Dolan. He left a mobile number. Do you know him?’

‘Rings a bell. Can I give him a call?’

I didn’t know Patrick Dolan. I ran the mobile number through Facebook and WhatsApp, then TrueCaller – a search tool that found contact details globally. No sign of Patrick. I drove to an out-of-town Sainsbury’s, bought a pay-as-you-go Nokia and messaged:

It’s me. Can you meet?

Five minutes later he messaged back.

You ok?

Possibly not. Where can you get to quickly?

New Pag caff? 5.30?

That was our café: the one where Joanna and I used to have a last breakfast before parting. It gave me a kick of jealousy alongside relief. Was this someone else she trusted? The incautious approach to arrangements told me he wasn’t a trained field officer, at least. Unless I was being lured. He’d chosen 5.30, an after-work stop for someone who worked locally – a few minutes’ drive from Shefford Park.

See you there, I messaged.

The caff was ageing, in need of a lick of paint, attached to a ten-pump truck stop, with grumpy staff, filthy toilets, and signs advertising beds and showers for thirty pounds a night. I got there early, took a seat at the back, near a rear exit, just in case.

The man arrived cautiously, looking around – which only made him more conspicuous. As did the hi-vis cycling jacket. He was tall, early thirties, clean-shaven with a mop of brown hair. He held a bicycle helmet under his arm, phone in hand.

I recognised him from the birthday of a mutual friend last year. I had a memory of him flirting with Joanna outside a restaurant in Clapham. One of the tech wizards. Tom someone. Tom Marsh.

‘Tom.’

He glanced over, eyes narrowed. Then he looked around again, still searching for Joanna, slowly putting two and two together. He turned back to me and walked over.

‘It was me who messaged you,’ I said. I waited for one final beat of comprehension. ‘We’re both concerned about Joanna. Get a coffee, take the battery out of your phone.’