I bite my tongue hard, in order not to say anything – I should have known that some will only be here to find out what’s going on; after all, that’s only human nature, isn’t it? And, of course, people will be judging Fran and Dominic (and you, a spiteful voice whispers in the back of my mind) – look at how we all jumped on Kate and Gerry McCann – and the fact that Fran has managed to smear a slick of palest pink lipstick over her mouth and a smudge of concealer under each eye will only make people judge her even harder. If you knew her, I think viciously, internally, if you knew her then you’d see the black circles under her eyes that push through the thin layer of concealer, you’d see the new tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and alongside her mouth. The force with which I think these thoughts is a surprise to me, I never would have believed that I could have felt protective over Fran – sharp, spiky, demanding Fran.

Someone shushes, and a hush settles over the hall as we all strain to hear the appeal. On screen, Fran and Dominic sit behind a table, their hands clasped tightly together. Fran sits up rigidly in her chair, her mouth a grim slash carved into her porcelain white skin. DI Dove leads the appeal, his voice thick and dark like hot rum, as he goes over Fran’s story of the events of Saturday night. My heart catches in my throat as he talks about Laurel, what she was wearing, where she was last seen. It feels like forever but is realistically only a few minutes before Dominic begins to speak.

‘Please,’ his voice is scratchy, but he almost seems relaxed compared to Fran, whose shoulders are somewhere up around her ears. ‘If anyone has seen Laurel, please, please contact the police. If you think you might have seen something, anything, no matter how insignificant . . . it might not seem like anything much, but it might just bring our little princess home to us.’

‘Someone must know something.’ Fran’s eyes are dry, but her voice is thick with tears. Her hands squeeze tightly around the soft toy she holds – one I recognise as Bom, a tired, worn-out tiger that has seen better days. Laurel has had it since she was born, and she refuses to sleep without it. I swallow down the lump in my throat. How has Laurel slept without Bom for the past two nights? ‘Someone must know where she is.’ She glances away from the camera, before pressing a tissue to her mouth as if to hold in a sob.

DI Dove holds up a hand as a buzz of chatter begins, the press already itching to ask their questions.

‘Yes?’ DI Dove points and a disembodied voice floats from somewhere off screen.