Flashing lights, sharp suits, phones waving, microphones pointing. A low murmur punctuated by the odd optimistic question directed at Violet’s parents. Me hissing, Don’t answer!

The room was packed. Local reporters brimming with smugness that there was a good story in their area, a bunch from the nationals looking down on the locals, TV reporters with the made-up sheen of the filmable, and a whole load of unidentifiables. I gave them a stare that indicated I was about to speak. The muttering died down.

I filled them in on the timeline and facts, not giving too much away. I repeated what had been released the day before – what clothes Violet had on, that she wore a distinctive pelican brooch on a necklace. I told them the hotline number, and it would indeed be hot with the calls of the attention-seeking crazies, the empty-lifers desperate to be close to the action. And the hotter the victim, the hotter the hotline became.

‘Violet was adopted,’ I said. ‘We believe she may have been in Gritton looking for her biological family. She may have spoken to someone who gave her information. If this was you, please come forward.’

The noise in the room increased, rising upwards and bouncing off the ceiling until it engulfed us. I tried to imagine a bubble of cool, blue calm around me, but it didn’t make a lot of difference.

More excited murmuring and shouted questions. ‘Has Violet been killed by animal activists?’

The noise that greeted this almost drowned out my response. ‘We’ve no reason to think Violet has been killed. We’ll take questions at the end. Now, Violet’s mother, Helen Armstrong, would like to say a few words.’

Roy had wanted to speak, but it had been obvious that Helen would be much better. With his entitled voice and ill-concealed fury, Roy would only alienate. The game was all about appearances. If your eyes were too close together, if you looked too upset or not upset enough, if your nose was shiny or your make-up too prominent, the reporters would have you back home burying your daughter under the patio before you could say, She’s a lovely girl and we miss her so much.

Helen did a good job. Sniffed and wiped her eyes like a pro. Looked straight at the camera. ‘Please …’ she said. ‘If you know anything about where Violet is, call the hotline. We’re so worried about her. We know she was on the internet a lot and but she’s really just a normal young girl. Please come forward if you know anything at all.’

They were straining to ask questions, a seething mass of them. It felt as if they were advancing on us, as if they might consume us.

Someone shouted, ‘Is it true she’d seen the Pale Child?’

A large man in the front row snorted. ‘Moronic yokels.’