Janet leaned forwards across the table towards her and removed her shades, just for a moment, to squish a finger into the corner of one of her eyes, as if something had irritated it. Then she hastily put the glasses back on, perhaps realizing that she hadn’t intended to do that. Helen noticed that the whites of her eyes were yellow and sickly-looking. Perhaps she was jaundiced, or worse, suffering with liver cancer.

‘I hope you are still having relations,’ she said conversationally. ‘Very important for a man to feel cherished. I saw his photo in the papers. I think he’s a man who needs much intercourse, am I right?’

Helen jerked back in her chair and put up both her hands in an angry gesture of surrender. ‘That’s enough! If you have something to tell me, tell me now or I’m walking right out of here and going to the police.’ She wished her phone was switched on. She could have taken a surreptitious snap of her.

Janet Friars was almost certainly a nutter.

‘Chill out, sweetheart.’ Janet confirmed it, with a wide smile. ‘I don’t mean any harm, or disrespect. Just tryin’ to help.’

‘Then help me,’ Helen hissed. Inside her head she repeated a small mantra, over and over again: Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry. Don’t cry. ‘Where is Frankie?’

Even as she said it, Helen knew it was hopeless. This woman had no more idea of where Frankie was than that fat lady behind the counter did.

‘You don’t know, do you,’ she said flatly.

‘No darling. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything. I just wanted to see you in case I could help in any way.’

‘You can’t.’ Helen pushed her chair back and stood up, leaving most of her latte, and the little round shortbread. She turned to leave, then turned back.

‘Yes, actually, you can. Don’t break my heart by giving me false hope. Don’t waste my time by sending me stupid dramatic Facebook messages when you don’t know anything. I could report you to the police, you know, make an official complaint. They already know about you. I showed them your messages. You’ll get a caution, for harassment. For wasting police time.’

The effort of keeping her voice down in the public place made Helen speak in what was almost a squeak of outrage, and she couldn’t prevent tears plopping down from underneath her sunglasses. I am an idiot, she berated herself. Especially because she had thought Janet describing Frankie’s pyjamas had meant something. The truth was, the description of what Frankie was wearing had been in all the papers. Helen had known this really, but had been so desperate to believe this woman might know something.