‘We’ll talk again, then, when you’re not so busy.’ Hagen gets to his feet. ‘We’ll be needing a copy of your CCTV, so please be sure the recording stays intact. I’ll send someone over to pick it up.’

‘The CCTV? Why?’

Hagen’s eyebrows lift.

‘For obvious reasons, I’d have thought, Mr Jadoon. The man with the tattoo must be on there, along with Evan Ferrers. It could be critical to the investigation. Let me give you my card. We’ll be in touch to fix an appointment for you to come down to the station and make a formal statement.’

‘Why a formal statement? Like I said, I don’t remember very much about them, not specifically.’

‘But you remember the man with the tattoos,’ says Hagen. ‘We’ll be in touch. Thanks very much for your time.’

No news is not good news.

As far as the general public is aware, there have been no sightings of Evan, nothing to go on at all. After tea, with a subdued Stewie shut away in his room and George happily watching Charlie and Lola, Vicky thinks she should ring Claire. Then she changes her mind. In the fridge, the remains of last night’s Pinot Grigio are well-chilled and tempting, and enough to fill a large glass. By the time she’s drunk a third of the wine, she feels braver, picks up the phone and dials.

The man who answers isn’t Matt. Vicky asks for Claire, and the man asks her who she is. Vicky describes herself as a friend of the family. She hears muffled voices down the line, the wind-in-microphone noises of a hand covering the receiver. Then the man takes his hand from the mouthpiece.

‘She’ll call you back,’ he says.

The evening goes by. Vicky bathes George and puts him to bed, finishes the Pinot Grigio and opens another bottle. Paul arrives home just after nine, exhausted and full of traveller’s tales of tailbacks and motorway closures. He’s eaten a sandwich and doesn’t want dinner, but he opens a beer, slips off his shoes and flops down on the sofa. Grabbing the remote, he skips through the channels to the second half of a football match.

‘You should go and talk to Stewie,’ says Vicky.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s a bit withdrawn.’ She’s about to say more – how Stewie didn’t eat much this evening, how he wasn’t full of his usual chatter when he came home from school – but the phone rings. Paul picks it up from the sofa arm, glances at it and holds it out to Vicky. The Ferrerses’ number is showing in the display.

She takes the phone from him and lets it ring. And ring. By the time she presses the answer button, the caller’s gone.

She and Paul look at each other.