How can she have taken Connor? He is seventeen – to all intents and purposes still a child – but his height equals Aidan’s five foot ten, he’s strong – his love of sports has shaped his muscles. It doesn’t seem feasible she’d have been able to overpower him. Could she have taken the other boys? Tyler and Ryan? She must have tricked Connor somehow. Drugged him? She’s a stranger to him – Connor wouldn’t have gone with her willingly, would he?

A wash of shame heats him from the inside out. He should have been here to protect his son, protect them all. After Tyler and Ryan had disappeared he had known there was a risk but Connor stayed off school today. He should have been safe. But the array of walkie-talkies, the crackle of radios tells a different story.

What exactly has happened here? Where are his family?

‘Connor!’ The word is painful, torn from Aidan’s throat. Breathless, he runs into the hallway. Sickness clumping in his stomach when he catches sight of the blood on the walls. Wherever Connor is, he didn’t go willingly.

‘Mr Walsh. It’s PC Leighton, do you remember I asked you some questions regarding the disappearance of Tyler and Ryan?’

‘Where’s my wife? My sons?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain. You can’t be in here. Don’t touch anything.’

‘This is my… Lucy!’ he calls frantically up the stairs.

‘Mr Walsh, please.’

Aidan shrugs free the hand that grasps his elbow.

‘Connor!’ he shouts, not expecting an answer but hoping for one all the same.

‘Come with me.’ He is ushered through to his kitchen like a guest, a visitor in a strange place, full of strange people talking in a language he doesn’t quite understand. He drops onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Cradles his head in his hands. Sifting through the black and white, the shades of grey in between. Should he tell PC Leighton about the text? But that would mean sharing the whole shameful mess and he isn’t convinced Connor is with her. She doesn’t have the strength. He is certain it must be a man. A man who is strong enough, powerful enough to wrestle his son out of the door. To leave a trail of blood.

Blood.

Aidan bites down on the urge to cry.

Who has his son?

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ PC Leighton offers.

‘Are they…’ Aidan can’t bring himself to say it. He rises to his feet.

‘We’ve no reason to believe that anyone is seriously hurt…’ The bubble of the kettle cuts off the rest of the sentence. Water is sloshed into mugs.

‘The blood…’ Aidan can’t stop moving, adrenaline forcing his feet to pace, his fingers clench into fists.