Helen moaned. Frankie had indeed been wearing her Tinkerbell pyjamas, but she was sure that this had been mentioned in the press conference – hadn’t it? Then she couldn’t remember if it had, or if she’d imagined it. Her hand hovered over the telephone, and she knew in a flash that she was now well and truly out of her depth. She was an idiot to think she could handle this herself. She would call the police. She dialled the number of Sutton police station and, once she got through the automated options to a real person, asked for DI Lennon.

‘He’s out, I’m afraid. Who shall I say is calling?’

She hesitated. ‘It’s Helen Philips. I need to talk to someone senior on the team investigating my daughter’s abduction. It’s urgent.’

After a maddeningly long pause, long enough for Helen to realize that Sean was going to be really pissed off with her for corresponding with Janet Friars without telling him, she heard a bored-sounding voice:

‘DI Winkler. Can I help you?’

She explained the situation and read out the Facebook message thread bar the specific instructions about meeting, almost whispering to prevent Sean and Eileen eavesdropping.

‘I see,’ said Winkler. ‘Have you told DI Lennon about this development?’

‘No. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. Our FLO said we’d be bound to get loads of hoax messages on Facebook,’ Helen replied sheepishly. She was surprised at Winkler’s reaction:

‘Well, Mrs Philips, I’m a firm believer in leaving no stone unturned. I’m on my way over now – please can you remain at home until I arrive? I’ll only be ten minutes.’

Helen put the phone down and tried not to feel too optimistic. She closed her eyes and hugged herself, imagining she was holding Frankie, tears rolling over her cheeks and onto her baby’s soft hair. This DI Winkler sounded like a man of action, like someone who could get things done. She was glad she’d been put through to him instead of Lennon.

Chapter 16

Chapter 16
Patrick – Day 3

Entering the Hollisters’ enormous house in St Margaret’s was like walking slap bang into the middle of an explosion of noise and fur and utter, absolute mayhem of almost cartoonish proportions. There were kids everywhere: a boy running down the stairs with no shirt on, a girl plonking discordantly at a piano, a toddler in a nappy chasing a cat around the living room, another boy mowing down zombies at full volume on an Xbox. Two red setters and a Yorkshire terrier appeared to be engaged in some kind of doggy ménage-a-trois in the kitchen. The smell of dirty nappies and dog fur assaulted Patrick’s nostrils as he stepped over a pile of wooden bricks and almost skidded on a yachting magazine that had been left on the wooden floor.