‘She’ll be getting cold.’ Almost as though she read my mind, Fran comes close to me, her voice quiet. ‘And she’s not keen on the dark either. Remember that time the bulb went in the nightlight in the middle of the night and she woke up? We all thought she’d been . . .’ Her voice trails off and she gives a tiny huff of wheezy laughter, that catches in her throat. ‘Is Dominic coming?’

‘Yes. He got held up.’ I don’t mention my call to the hospital. My hands are freezing now, and I shove them deep into my pockets, my fingers touching something cold and plasticky. I snare whatever it is between my fingertips and draw it out, only to see a tiny doll, like the little Polly Pocket dolls I used to have as a child. Mr Snow gave it to Laurel as we passed one morning on the way to school – it had blonde hair, and a pink jacket, and he told her it looked exactly like her – I assumed it must have belonged to one of his grandchildren. It certainly wasn’t new. Laurel must have sneaked it into my pocket without me noticing. I curl my fingers round it and feel the soft plastic stick slightly to my palms.

‘He’s always held up.’ Fran’s voice jolts me back to the present. ‘Maybe if he’d actually bothered to turn up this evening this never would have happened.’ She gives a little sob and presses the back of her hand to her mouth again, as her eyes comb over the field, watching the figures of volunteers sliding across the mud, all shouting Laurel’s name.

‘Fran? Anna?’ Someone else approaches now, a stranger, but I can tell immediately that he belongs to the police. There is something about his manner, the way he carries himself, that tells me he is important. He introduces himself to Fran, but I don’t catch his name, only the words, ‘. . . senior investigating officer.’ With a pang, I remember the last time I heard those words. It’s different this time, I think, I can’t be blamed this time.

‘We’re doing everything we can to find Laurel – due to the length of time she’s been missing now we’ve put in a request for a helicopter to join the search, but for the moment I think it’s best for yourself and Ms Cox to return to the house,’ he is saying, a hand on Fran’s elbow to guide her towards the waiting police vehicle.

‘What? No!’ Fran wrenches her arm away, sliding a little in her wellies. ‘Laurel is out here somewhere. Shouldn’t I be here? Waiting, in case they find her?’