He disappeared through a door at the end of the bar and about thirty seconds later returned with a man about Robin’s own age, a little less tanned, slightly less Gillette-commercial, but still ready for his close-up. Black round-necked sweater, black-rimmed glasses, dark jeans – he looked cosmopolitan in a way no one who worked five minutes from the Ringway Centre had a right to. He came out from behind the bar and shook their hands.

‘Justin said you’re asking about Becca.’

He looked at Maggie’s card then glanced at the doors as a group of five women came in, co-workers judging by the office clothes and the age range. ‘Let’s talk in the back room. Quieter at this time of day.’

They followed him through a wide arch into another room of similar size. More wrought-iron columns and antique glass but instead of a bar, there were tables for eating. The tiles were Moroccan, the booths along one wall full of patterned cushions. The vibe was darker, more intimate, candles in coloured glasses flickering on every table.

He ushered them to one in the far corner. At a serving station nearby, a woman in a white butcher’s apron was steaming cutlery in a wine bucket, wiping it for watermarks and sorting it into a tray. ‘Could you do that in the kitchen, Amanda? While we’re open?’

‘Sorry, David. Can I get you anything?’

He looked at them, eyebrows up.

‘Not for us. Thanks.’

He waited until she’d lugged the bucket through the kitchen doors. ‘So what’s happening? Is there any news?’

‘You talked to her mother on Friday, was it?’ said Maggie.

‘Yeah. Early – about seven? I’ve been feeling bad about it – I was probably a bit short with her. We were packed, and I was pissed off with Becca for not showing up. We had a party in that night – we’ve got a private room for events – and she was supposed to be doing it. I thought she’d just left us in the lurch.’

‘Was that something she did often?’

‘No. She’d never done it before. I try to run a tight ship so I don’t have many flaky people – they don’t last long, anyway – but Becca was reliable, she’d never pulled a no-show. And she was good – if someone else was off sick, she’d quite often work an extra shift for me at short notice. I thought if she was ill or whatever, she could at least have called so I could get cover.’

‘Have you heard from her since you spoke to Valerie – her mother?’

‘No. Nor’s Arran, the deputy manager – he does the rota. He called a few times to see if she wanted to work this week – everyone gets one pass, shit happens, right? – but nada, just voicemail, and then her mailbox was full, he said. And then the police came.’