They both collapsed with laughter at the irony of big, muscular DI Lennon getting told off by his mum for coming in late smelling of drink. ‘You’d better go, then,’ Suzanne said.

Suddenly she leaned her head against his chest. ‘This has been nice.’

‘Really nice,’ he agreed, instinctively sliding his arm around her shoulders.

‘Back to normal again tomorrow, though,’ she said warningly, looking up into his eyes.

‘Yes boss. Understood.’

‘In that case, perhaps we could risk a quick if rather unprofessional . . .’ Her lips were moving towards his, her eyelids floating blissfully closed and he could smell her scent and the appley shampoo she wore . . . He bent his head towards her, risking one last glance around and then—

‘Oh shit,’ he hissed, jumping away from her as if stung. ‘Don’t look round. Winkler just came in.’

‘Winkler?’ she snapped, immediately back in sharp focus, sharp-tongued Suzanne, all the soft edges erased. ‘Did he see us?’

‘No, thank God. He’s got his back to us. But I think that’s my cue . . . Thanks for the – decompression. It was much needed.’

‘Indeed,’ she said gravely. ‘I very much enjoyed it. Goodnight, Pat.’

‘Goodnight, boss.’

She laughed. ‘One more thing,’ she said, as he swallowed the dregs of his final pint. ‘This will never be spoken of. Agreed?’

‘. . . Agreed.’

We’re still in London, and Frankie is locked up safe and sound while I go out to buy supplies. She’s still not eating properly and her body is starting to look like a bundle of sticks. I remember seeing a documentary about this once, a child who missed her mummy so much that she became depressed and stopped eating. As I’m walking round the supermarket I think about Sean and Helen and how they are to blame for the poor child’s mental frailty, and as if my thoughts have conjured them I look up and there they are.

On the TV. I mean, on the banks of TVs in the electrical department. The sound is turned down on all of them, but from the headlines flashing on the screens, the shots of the house and the police cars and the stills showing the children, it isn’t hard to work out what has happened. They’ve found whoever it was who took Liam and Izzy.

I’m so pissed off by this latest development that I leave the supermarket without buying anything and walk back to the van, thinking hard.

All the while the police thought all three children were taken by the same person, I was protected by the smokescreen of their ignorance. But now they know Frankie has been abducted, to use their word, by someone else. Right now, they will be trying to work out who, and why. Maybe they will talk to that stupid girl, find out what happened that night.

But they will never reach the truth, which is this:

I love this child.

I have taken what I deserve.