‘No, she’s not. She’s stayed home,’ I say, spying Jessika on the other side of the room, ‘will you excuse me?’ I push past, ignoring her as she calls something after me, and make my way across the crowded hall, keeping my head lowered as I pass the man with the camera. It’s started to empty out slightly, people moving towards the double doors with polystyrene cups of coffee in one hand, crumpled posters bearing Laurel’s face in the other.

‘Jess!’ I call out, before she can join the hoards leaving the hall. Jessika Lewis is the one friend I have in Oxbury. She is nanny to Laurel’s best friend, Daisy, and we met in the park one warm summer’s day when the girls were tiny. She turns to face me, biting her lower lip.

‘Oh God, Anna. Are you OK? I’ve texted you like, a million times.’ Her arms reach around my skinny frame and pull me tightly towards her in a hug.

‘Sorry, I only just saw the messages . . . what are you doing here?’ I say. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

‘Technically it’s my day off, so I thought I’d come along and see if I can do anything to help find Laurel. But then Claire turned up here anyway, and brought Daisy along with her, so I’m pretty sure I’ve only got an hour or so before Madam calls me over to take Daisy back to the house.’ She gives a little jerk of her head behind her, and I see Daisy sitting at a low table, colouring in, while Claire buzzes around behind her, posters in hand. ‘Cheryl Smythe somehow organised all of this, overnight, single-handedly.’ She points, and I realise that she’s talking about the caramel blonde woman. ‘It doesn’t take long for word to spread around here, you know that, and everybody wants to be involved.’

Somehow this doesn’t surprise me – Fran and Dominic are the closest Oxbury gets to a celebrity couple. Thanks to Dominic’s success as a surgeon and Fran’s bit parts in a couple of BBC historical dramas everyone knows who they are.

Jess must see something in my face, as she says, ‘I meant help. Everybody wants to help, not be involved. Come on,’ she takes a look over her shoulder to make sure Claire is still otherwise occupied, ‘I’ve been assigned the far end of the field – I’m sure no one will mind if I have an extra pair of hands.’

As we turn to leave the mousy woman from the PTA, the one whose face I can’t put a name to, is standing close behind me, and I almost step on her foot as I swivel round.