‘When’s your husband getting back?’ I asked.

Joanne raised her head and sighed.

‘He won’t be back until it’s dark,’ she said. ‘They’ll probably have to drag him back – he can’t sit around waiting, he’d go mad.’

‘What about you?’

‘I don’t have any choice there, do I?’ she said. ‘Vicky asked if I wanted to wait it out at her house. I mean it wasn’t like she was going to come down and “wait it out” here, was it? Have you seen her house? Can you imagine this lot . . .’ She made a gesture that encompassed her children and the state of her kitchen. ‘No, if she wants company . . . It’s not like she’s short of friends.’ She gave me an odd look. ‘Are you lot trained to keep your mouth shut? Because I seem to be doing most of the entertaining here.’

’We’re supposed to unobtrusive,’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah? All the better to let us incriminate ourselves?’

As it happened, exactly that – amongst all the other roles an FLO is supposed to perform.

‘Trained that way,’ I said. ‘The idea is not to make your life any more difficult than it has to be.’

She laughed at that, a short mirthless bark. Then she made eye contact and held it.

‘Do you think I’m going to get my daughter back?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Why?’

Because you’ve got to have hope and no news is good news. And because the best you can do is sound like you’re being forthright and sincere. If they get their kids back they won’t even remember what you said and if they don’t – then nothing else will be important.

I was trying to come up with a convincing lie when I was saved by a voice from the hallway.

‘Jo? Are you in?’ Male, adult, public school.

‘In the kitchen,’ called Joanne.

We heard him pause at the living room door and ask the boys if they were bearing up.

‘Chin up,’ he told them, and then he came into the kitchen.

He was taller than me, mid-forties, dressed in cargo pants and green wellies, and a blue and gold rugby shirt that wasn’t loose enough to disguise a little pot belly. He had broad shoulders that were going to fat, brown eyes, a narrow nose and a big forehead. He was about to say something to Joanne when he copped sight of me.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

Joanne introduced us. He was Derek Lacey – father of the other missing child. He’d been out with the searchers, but they were losing the light.

‘I just wanted to be sure you were okay,’ he said.

‘I’m about what you’d expect,’ she said.