Heart thumping, a wash of nausea making me feel dizzy, I hesitate, unsure whether to shout for Jess, or take a closer look. It might be nothing, I whisper to myself, running my tongue over dry lips. I step close to the fence, careful not to place my feet anywhere near the drag marks, and peer into the field beyond. I see nothing at first, until I slide through the opening in the fence and into the field. The damp grass near the fence has been flattened down, and a trail of bent stems lead away from the fencing towards the other side of the field – as though someone has walked a path through the longer grass. I look behind me, telling myself that if Jess is in sight I’ll call her over, but there is no one. From here, I can’t even hear the searchers calling Laurel’s name. Stepping to one side, so I create my own path, I follow the trail over the slight hill, stopping short as I see where the path of flattened grass leads to.

A camp. There are eight or nine caravans parked up on the far side of the field, no doubt having forced their way in by cutting the padlock off the gate on the other side. It’s happened more times than anyone cares to mention in Oxbury; the travellers’ arrival usually gets reported to both the police and the council within hours of them pitching up. Nice middle-class people from Surrey don’t want travellers in their midst. Obviously, this time the police have been too busy to come out and move them on, and if they only arrived last night there’s a chance that no one else has even noticed them yet. I force my feet on towards the camp, ignoring the flip of my stomach as I get closer, nervous at having to speak to them. The only experience I’ve had of them before was when one of them threatened to smash up the Co-op after he got caught pinching bacon, while I was buying sweets for Laurel. As I get closer, I see two men standing outside one of the caravans, both turning to face me as I get within talking distance.

‘Hello,’ I say, my mouth dry again. They are both tall and well-built, their skin tanned a dark brown, roll-up cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Neither of them wears shirts with sleeves despite the cold, and I see the tattoos on one of them ripple as he raises a hand to push his hair back from his face, his dark curls dotted with droplets of water from the mist.

He speaks, his voice rough. ‘What d’yer want?’