Cassie and Laura had been inseparable for years. She’d been the first to get a piercing and of course Laura had to follow. Now Cassie had three tattoos – God knows what Laura was going to come back with after their long trip.

‘You’ll keep in touch and let me know when you’ve landed?’

‘I’ll WhatsApp you every day!’

‘You’re all I have in the world, you know that, don’t you, my angel?’

‘And you’re all I have, too, Mum!’

‘Until you meet the right person.’

‘Yech! Don’t think there’s much danger of that. Although maybe when we get to the Galapagos next year, I might kidnap a sea lion and bring it back.’

Meg smiled, knowing she was only half jesting. Over the years, Laura had brought all kinds of wounded creatures into their house, including a fox cub, a robin and a hedgehog. ‘Be careful in the water, won’t you – don’t forget about those dangerous rip tides and currents?’

‘Hello, Mum! Didn’t we grow up on the seaside? I’ll be careful! You’ll look after all the animals – don’t forget the gerbils?’

‘I’ve got all your instructions.’

Laura had written a detailed list of their food and the times they liked to be fed.

‘And special hugs and treats for Master Horace?’ She was struggling to speak now, her voice choked. ‘Don’t be sad, Mum. I love you so much and I’ll still love you just as much when I’m over there.’

Meg turned her head and looked at her daughter. ‘Sure, I know you will,’ she said.

And the moment you get on that plane, you will have forgotten all about me.

That’s how it works.

4

Monday 26 November

Shit, Mickey thought, his nerves shorting out as he obeyed the two Border Force officers’ unsmiling signals to pull over into the inspection lane. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Shit shit shit.

Be calm. Deep breath. Smile.

That was all he needed to do. But at this moment there was a total disconnect between his mind and his body. His ears were popping and his armpits were moist. A nerve tugged at the base of his right eye; a twitch he’d not had for years suddenly returned at the worst possible moment imaginable.

Stepping out of the office, Clive Johnson continued to observe the driver’s body language as the vehicle and trailer came to a halt. The man, who was wearing a black beanie, lowered his window, and Johnson strode up and leaned in. He smelled the strong reek of cigarette smoke on the man, noticing his badly stained teeth; the tattoo rising up above his open-neck shirt. He was wearing leather gloves. His skin had the dry, creased look of a heavy smoker, making him appear older than he actually was – probably around forty, he thought.