Feeling sick, I sit back in my chair, poking a finger into the leftover foam in the bottom of my coffee cup. I don’t want to go home now, not after that, even though I know it will be a while before the Jessops return. The atmosphere in the house will be even more suffocating, especially as Dominic didn’t want to do the appeal in the first place.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ A voice rouses me from my thoughts and I look up to see a tall, fair-haired woman standing in front of me.

‘Sure. I’m going anyway.’ I shrug and lean down to pick up my bag. I’ll go for a walk, leave it a while before I head back to the house.

‘Don’t go on my account,’ she smiles at me, and I think I recognise her from somewhere. ‘It’s raining hard out there. There’s plenty of room for both of us.’ I glance out of the window and she’s right. Rain streams down the glass, obscuring the small groups of people headed back out to resume the search for Laurel. It’s either go straight home or get soaked.

‘OK.’ I sink back down into my chair and pick up my phone, hoping she’ll get the hint. She doesn’t.

‘God, it’s awful, isn’t it?’ she says, gesturing towards the projector screen. The anchor is still talking, Laurel’s photo in a tiny square next to her head. ‘You just can’t imagine it.’

‘No,’ I say, blandly, still staring at my phone, scrolling through the messages from Jess (‘Where r u? Are u going to the appeal? I am at home if u want to watch here let me no ur ok’), and from a couple of the other nannies from the toddler group I used to take Laurel to (‘So sorry Anna, call if you need anything. Anna, this is Beth, pls let me know if I can help in any way’), and others that share the same underlying tone – thank goodness it wasn’t me this happened to. The woman is still talking, despite my giving her the cold shoulder. If she carries on, I’ll have to leave.

‘I think I recognise him, you know? The dad?’ She pauses, one hand on her chin, as she looks up at the screen again, and realisation starts to dawn.

‘You’re a bloody journalist, aren’t you?’ I say, anger bubbling up in my chest. ‘How dare you? Don’t you think we’ve got enough to deal with without you lot snooping around, pretending to be friendly?’ I get up and grab my bag, throwing it over my shoulder.

‘No, wait!’ she says. She’s taller than me, and she stands so that I’d have to force my way past her if I want to go. ‘I’m not a journalist, I swear. Please, sit down.’