‘No, or I assume not because Jenny in work had a date with him on Saturday night and he stayed over at hers,’ Clodagh says, and I wonder do I hear a trace of a sob in her voice. ‘I’ve called everyone I can think of and no one has seen her or heard from her. And she didn’t go to work today – or call in sick …’

My head starts to swim. I grasp the edge of the worktop to get a hold of something real. Tangible. I hope my hand will float right through it. That this is all part of a dream.

But I feel the cold granite on my skin.

This is real.

‘Since Thursday?’ I blurt, my throat tight.

‘And she hasn’t been on any of her social media,’ Clodagh says, and there is no mistaking the crying for anything else any more.

I look at my keys, my bag, thrown on the worktop. I look at the half-empty shopping bags. The discarded kitchen paper. I look at it all and, without listening to what else Clodagh is saying, I tell her to call the police and that I will be right round.

Harry Styles meows loudly as I leave without putting out his dinner. He can have the bloody Greek yoghurt. Everything else will have to wait. I curse as I wait for my phone to connect with my car’s Bluetooth system. It never normally takes so long and yet today, of course, it does.

I jab the ‘voice control’ button, order the car to call Nell. Listen to the automated voice tell me it’s calling her. I want to scream at it to shut up, because I want to hear my daughter’s voice. No. I need to hear my daughter’s voice. And there it is, the ‘hello’ I need to hear and I exhale until it’s followed immediately by ‘sorry, I can’t take your call right now’.

I stifle a sob, slam my car into reverse, my leg shaking as I release the clutch.

I call my husband. Maybe he’ll have spoken to her. He should be driving home from work. I wonder how much I should say knowing he has to drive from Belfast, in worsening conditions. I don’t want him so panicked he makes a stupid mistake.

‘Stephen,’ I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. ‘I’m just wondering if you heard from Nell today or over the weekend?’

‘Over the weekend?’ I hear the ticktock of his indicator light, the swish and thump of his windscreen wipers.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying not to be impatient even though I want to scream.

‘No. I’m not sure I did. I can’t think. I would check my phone if I wasn’t driving. Why? Is everything okay?’