‘Thank you, Anna.’ The police officer seems satisfied with my comments, scratching away jotting down my words in her notebook. ‘So, it sounds as though she’s wandered off, lost sight of Mum. We’ve got the exits closed now and we’re looking for her, OK? She can’t have got far – we’ll find her.’ She gives me a brisk smile, before walking away towards her colleagues, leaving Fran and me alone, the chilly night air taking on a sinister feel as Laurel’s name is shouted again and again into the dark.

I’m not sure how long it is before DS Wright walks back over to us, her face pensive. She stumbles over an uneven patch in the muddy ground, her sturdy black shoes sliding as she almost loses her footing. Righting herself, she brushes a splash of mud from her black trousers, before stopping in front of us.

‘What is it?’ Fran says, almost shoving me aside to get close to the police officer, her hand reaching out before falling to her hip. Her voice is hoarse from shouting Laurel’s name, and as I swallow I realise my throat is also raw. ‘Did you find something? Did you find Laurel?’

‘Mrs Jessop . . . Fran.’ DS Wright speaks slowly, calmly, before she turns her gaze to include me. ‘As yet, we haven’t found any sign of Laurel in the immediate area, but we are still carrying out a full, intensive search. In the meantime, there are just a few things that I would like to ask you about.’

Fran says nothing, her face pale, so I nod instead. ‘Yes, of course. We’ll answer any questions you have, won’t we, Fran?’

‘Great, thank you.’ DS Wright pulls out her notebook, rifling through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. ‘So, Laurel went to catch up with her mother – with you, Fran – is that right?’

‘Yes.’ I nod again, as Fran crushes a tissue to her nose, tears spilling over and running down her cheeks. ‘But I didn’t actually see her catch up with Fran.’ Just saying the words makes me feel sick.

‘But you’re sure she went in that direction – towards the portaloos?’

‘Yes, yes I’m sure.’ I am sure – aren’t I? Guilt and worry converge to make me doubt myself, to doubt the picture I see in my mind’s eye of Laurel running towards the back of Fran’s coat, as she weaved her way slowly through the crowds.

‘And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, either before or during the bonfire? Nobody hanging around that shouldn’t have been? No one who seemed overly interested in Laurel?’ Her eyes settle on my face and I feel a slight sweat break out across my forehead, despite the cold night air, as though it is me under investigation, me who has done something wrong.