When she comes back, Naylor invites Paul and Vicky to take seats on the sofa, as if this is her house now. Naylor takes the armchair. She’s the kind of woman Paul might find attractive under other circumstances, the suit jacket hiding the kind of curves he likes, dark hair pinned up in a messy French twist. Hagen helps himself to a dining chair, placing it at the centre of the room. He sits down, his legs spread, leaning forward on to his thighs, taking up space. He looks long and hard at Paul, and then at Vicky, while Paul is wishing he would just deliver the blow.

‘I expect you’re wondering why we’re here,’ says Hagen. He speaks with a Geordie burr which evokes the mean streets of Newcastle, but Hagen never denies his suburban origins. ‘We apologise for disturbing you at this hour, but I’m sure you appreciate that sometimes we deal with events where time is of the essence and we have to act quickly. Unfortunately, we’re involved in such an incident tonight. A young boy has gone missing.’

Paul feels a huge sense of relief, and lets go the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Not his disaster, then, but someone else’s. Immediately, he feels ashamed of his selfishness.

‘Who?’ asks Vicky.

‘Evan Ferrers.’

‘Evan? Really? Oh my God.’ Vicky is baffled. ‘But when can he possibly . . . What’s going on?’

‘Evan didn’t come home from school yesterday,’ says Naylor. Her tone is careful, and Paul suspects the script’s rehearsed. ‘Mrs Ferrers thinks he was with your son yesterday afternoon. Stewie, is it?’

‘Stewie, yes. He and Evan were at rugby practice. I assume they left together. They usually do.’

‘Did Mrs Ferrers phone here at all?’

‘Well, yes,’ says Vicky. ‘She said she didn’t know where Evan was and asked to speak to Stewie. I don’t think he was much help, but she didn’t ring again, so I just assumed Evan had come home. I never thought for one moment he’d still be missing. Oh God, I should have called her, shouldn’t I? Poor Claire! How is she?’

‘What time did Mrs Ferrers call?’

Mentally running through the evening’s banal structure, Vicky shakes her head.

‘I don’t know. About six, six-thirty, I suppose.’

‘I wonder if we could speak to Stewie, Mrs Wareham?’

The request feels polite, but from Hagen’s face, Vicky knows the politeness is all veneer.

‘But it’s the middle of the night,’ she objects. ‘He’s got school tomorrow.’

Paul, Hagen and Naylor all look at her, and Vicky blushes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and wake him.’