Everything but Frankie. And that was the other hand. It was a particular sort of mental torture, to be there without her, seeing her finger paintings on the fridge and her toys tidied, unplayed with, in the basket in the conservatory. Photos on the piano and her tiny stripy wellies in the hall. At least being in the Jamesons’ house had spared them that. They had been allowed home late the night before, and gone straight to bed, too distraught to focus on anything but the vain attempt to sleep.

When Helen came downstairs on the morning after their first night in the house alone without Frankie, she found Alice and her friend Georgia already sitting at the kitchen table, looking at YouTube clips on Alice’s laptop, empty cereal bowls in front of them.

‘Oh! Hi, Georgia. We don’t usually see you this early.’

‘Hi Helen,’ said Georgia through her fringe. With what was clearly a vast amount of effort, she muttered something else that Helen didn’t catch, but which made Georgia’s pale cheeks flush scarlet. Alice looked embarrassed too.

‘Sorry, what was that?’ Helen tied her dressing gown belt tighter, suddenly aware of how terrible she must look – hair like a bird’s nest, sleep in her eyes and creases on her face. At least it was only Georgia.

‘I said, I’m really sorry about Frankie and I hope they find her soon,’ the girl blurted in a rush, staring at the tabletop. ‘Everything will be fine. I’m sure it will,’ she added half-heartedly.

Helen smiled wanly and came over to give Georgia a hug around the shoulders. Helen had always thought that Georgia was the most beautiful of all Alice’s friends, with her long wavy red-blonde hair and flawless skin. She looked like a perfect English rose – but, according to Alice, had already slept with three boys, and managed to get herself an ASBO last year for jumping on and damaging the roofs of three cars late at night after one too many Breezers. Apparently she was mortified, though, and voluntarily wrote letters of apology to all three of the cars’ owners . . . Even so, Helen had thought at the time that she was glad Alice was her stepdaughter, rather than butter-wouldn’t-melt Georgia. She didn’t dislike Georgia’s mother, a mouthy posh woman called April, a writer of bonkbusters, apparently, and every time they met, one of other of them would say, ‘we MUST go out for that glass of wine soon’ – but somehow they never did.

‘Thanks, honey.’

‘Did you watch the press conference?’ Alice asked Helen. Helen was surprised at the question – it was the first time Alice had spoken to her since she had stormed out yesterday.