‘I . . . I started talking to him. On the way to school. We pass by his house every day, and it was the polite thing to say hello. And then we got talking a few times. He was nice.’

‘Nice!’ Fran’s voice rises to a screech and as she slams her hands down on the table in front of me I resist the urge to clamp my hands over my ears. ‘He might have taken my daughter! What the fuck were you thinking, Anna? Encouraging a four-year-old to talk to a stranger? After everything I tried to teach her!’ She shoves her hands through her hair and starts pacing the floor. ‘I need to speak to Dove. Get me the phone.’

But Kelly has already beaten her to it, and is muttering into the phone, herself pacing backwards and forwards in much the same fashion as Fran.

‘I can’t believe you would be so stupid,’ Fran hisses at me, out of Kelly’s earshot, ‘after all the things I did to try and drum it into her that she shouldn’t speak to people she doesn’t know, and you go and do this. No wonder there’s a chance she got into someone’s car.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp back tears, forcing the words out through the lump in my throat. ‘I didn’t think . . .’

Kelly turns to us, hanging up the phone, a grave look on her face. ‘Your information was right, Anna. George Snow is helping us with our enquiries, but at this moment in time that’s all I can tell you.’

‘What? Are you kidding?’

The shrill ring of the doorbell stops all of us in our tracks.

‘I’ll go,’ I say, eager to get away from Fran before she turns on me again. I don’t even care if it’s the press, I want to get out of this room. There is a single silhouette in the glass of the front door when I reach it though, and I heave a sigh of relief that there is only one person outside, not a press mob.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Opening the door, I stare in surprise as Ruth stands on the doorstep, yet another foil-covered dish in her hands.

‘I brought a casserole,’ she says, shoving it towards me. The dish is lukewarm and a vague meaty smell wafts out from under the foil, making my stomach turn.

‘Thanks.’ I don’t know what else to say.

‘Can I come in?’ Ruth has one foot on the doorstep, one grubby, denim-clad leg already poised to push her way inside.

‘It’s not really a good time,’ I say, thinking of Fran in the kitchen, her hair standing on end, kimono slipping off one porcelain-white shoulder as she shrieks at me.