‘Hello,’ she says in a hushed voice, ‘are you here to watch the appeal?’ She doesn’t wait for me to respond before she carries on talking. ‘Fran looks ever so frail, doesn’t she? I saw her getting in the car this morning. I hope she’s eating enough, I did send her a few text messages, but she hasn’t replied yet. But I’m cooking lasagne when I get home and I’ll bring it over. She needs to keep her strength up, you know. It’s a terrible feeling, losing someone like this. Losing a child.’ Her words tumble out one after the other, as if she is worried I’ll stop her from speaking before she’s said all she wants to say. Fran must know her from somewhere.

Someone makes a shushing noise, as Fran’s face fills the huge projector screen that has been wheeled into the hall, a nameless parent hooking up their laptop so we can all watch the appeal. Her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are pale, apart from two spots of colour that flare high on each. The woman is right, she does look frail. I turn to agree, but she has moved off, across to the other side of the hall. The man sat behind the laptop fiddles with the keys, turning up the volume, and the newscaster’s voice fills the hall.

‘. . . not seen since Saturday evening, at the annual fireworks event hosted by the Oxbury Primary School. Police are searching . . .’

Don’t they say the first twenty-four hours are the most important in a police investigation? That in the case of child abduction if the child isn’t found within three hours there’s a higher risk of harm? It’s Wednesday now, and over seventy-two hours since anyone last saw Laurel. I close my eyes and wish I’d waited at home to watch the appeal, instead of out here, but the thought of sitting alone in that chilly, too-bright house, with none of the warmth that usually fills it, had made me want to cry and I had to get out. There is an essence, a vibe, that is missing now Laurel isn’t there, something that only Laurel brings. Now, sweat prickles at the back of my neck, as the air in the hall feels thick and stifling, and I feel scrutinised by the people around me, even though I know it’s probably all in my head. But I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Watched by every member of the public, opinions forming before they even know the truth, making their decisions based on the lies printed by the media, guilt forming a hard ball in my stomach. I straighten up in my chair, as if trying to convince myself that this time it’s different.

‘Still managed to put her make-up on,’ a woman sitting behind me sniffs to her companion under her breath.