She followed him into the living room.

The three family members were occupying separate parts of the three-piece suite. On the left, farthest from the door, Sean Philips perched on the edge of a cream armchair, casting anxious glances at his wife, who sat on the far right, in another armchair. Between them, the teenage daughter was collapsed on the sofa, slumped back into the cushions, a stunned expression on her face.

Both Sean and Helen stood up as he entered the room, Helen moving closest to him, Sean just behind.

‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Philips, Alice. My name is Detective Inspector Patrick Lennon and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Carmella Masiello. You must be frantic with worry, so let’s not waste any time.’

The first thing Helen Philips said was, ‘Is it him? The man who took Izzy and Liam?’

She was shaking, her fists clenched tight by her sides, and she was giving him that look, the one he knew so well. The kind of look dying people give surgeons – desperate, hopeful. He couldn’t help but think that she was going to look great on TV, that the papers were going to love putting her picture on the front page. The beautiful, haughty mixed-race woman, huge brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, Cupid’s bow lips. And there, on an antique sideboard, were rows of framed photographs, among them a solo picture of a little girl, a photo that must have been taken in a studio by a pro. A gorgeous kid with her mum’s huge eyes and soft wispy dark brown curls. The papers were going to love putting her on the front page too.

Patrick crossed to the sideboard, fingers hovering over the picture. ‘May I?’

Helen looked away from the photo as if it burned her eyes, but Sean nodded.

Patrick held up the picture. ‘This is Frankie?’

‘Yes.’

Sean’s voice was flat and low. There was a trace of Estuary in his voice, Essex or north Kent. He was a few years older than Patrick, late thirties, and he looked like he kept himself fit – slim with a firm jaw. He seemed to be trying very hard to keep it together right now, as if even being in this room was killing him. He wanted to be out there, searching for his little girl.

Tears rolled down Helen’s cheeks and Sean tried to put his arm around her but she shrugged him off.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Helen said. ‘Is it him?’

Patrick replied in a voice that was firm but with a velvety nap of softness. ‘We have no way of knowing that yet, Mrs Philips. Right now, we’re keeping all options open. It’s only just over an hour since you discovered that Frankie wasn’t in her bed. We need to keep an open mind.’

‘No!’ Helen shook her head vehemently. ‘She hasn’t just wandered off. She’s been taken.’