“That she was visiting family in Pakistan.” Melissa looked sickened, as if she was only now envisioning the pit she and her husband had dug for themselves. In addition to the potentially permanent loss of their daughter, the family would be assessed by social workers and safeguarding teams, who would decide whether Tahlia’s siblings were also at risk. “What will happen now?” she asked. “Will you help us look for her?”

“Yes.” Rosie was certain of that at least. “She’ll be formally reported as a missing child, and the teams working the case will continue to search for her. You and your husband will probably be interviewed by the lead detective, and you have to be prepared for the involvement of Social Services.”

“Just find Tahlia,” Melissa said. “Whatever else happens, happens. Please, just find our daughter.”

Chapter Thirteen

Flashes of blue and red reflected off the waterlogged road, where two fire engines, a couple of police traffic units, and a standard patrol unit were lighting up the junction like Blackpool Illuminations and acting as a lure for a crowd of bloodthirsty but ultimately disappointed onlookers.

Zipping up her high-vis jacket, Jem picked a route across to the closest traffic officer. Cubes of safety glass crunched beneath her boots as she surveyed the scene, judging the damage to the vehicles and the likely speed of impact. The two cars sat at angles to each other, one tiny and crumpled beyond repair, the other built like a tank and slightly dented at the front.

“Four in the Range Rover,” the traffic officer said as Jem raised a gloved hand in greeting. “Dad reckons they’re all fine, though, and the driver of the Picasso legged it.”

“I’m so glad we haven’t risked life and limb to rush here,” Jem said, deadpan. A newly forming habit had her checking the scene for Rosie, just in case, but she couldn’t see her amongst the rabble. “Do we know who dropped the nines for it?”

“That stupid sod over there.” The officer pointed to a slouching lad wearing a tatty Man United cap and a knockoff Adidas tracksuit. He was snapping selfies, using the cars as a backdrop. “He swears there was a fire at first, but—and I quote—‘the rain done put it out.’”

The job had been passed to Jem as Multi-vehicle collision, one car on fire, four people trapped, which explained the large number of resources deployed. She blinked droplets from her eyelashes, ruing her decision to cut the hood off her coat because it flapped and looked stupid and because drunk patients liked grabbing hold of it.

“Suppose it didn’t occur to him that those trapped victims might simply have wanted to stay dry,” she said.

“Suppose not.” The officer opened a packet of toffees and offered Jem one. “I’d arrest him for wasting everyone’s time if I could be arsed filling in the paperwork.”