‘Are you okay?’ Fran asks, knowing she’s not, as her mum clicks on the kettle and then reaches into the cupboard for two mugs.

‘Yes. No.’ Geraldine bangs two mugs on the work surface. ‘No, I’m bloody not.’

In another life, with another mother, Fran would have placed her hand on Geraldine’s shoulder or twisted her round for a hug. Instead, her hands hang loosely at her sides.

‘Tom Wade?’ she ventures.

‘Of course bloody Tom Wade.’ Her mother turns to face her. ‘That bastard’s only been out of prison for three days and he’s already at it. Tweeting his bloody nonsense about compassion and regret and being … being … humbled and broken. Broken? What the hell does he know about being broken?’

‘Mum …’

‘And the replies … they’re what make me more cross than anything. All his sheep-like followers falling for his crap.’ She reaches around Fran and snatches an iPad from the kitchen table. ‘Look!’ She jabs at the screen several times. ‘Listen to this one: Please don’t beat yourself up like this, Tom. You are a good man. And this one: It shows how honourable you are that you carry the burden of a terrible accident on your shoulders. Terrible accident?’ She looks up at Fran. ‘No one stubbed their bloody toe. People died, for God’s sake!’

‘I know.’ Fran gently takes the iPad from her mother’s hands and returns it to the table. ‘Stop looking. It’s bringing everything back.’

‘But it’s not bringing her back is it? Jenna’s still missing.’

The whistling of the kettle cuts through the strangled pause. ‘I’ll do the tea,’ Fran says. ‘You sit down.’

Even with her back turned to her mother she can feel the weight of her despair. It’s like a car crusher, pushing her head into her shoulders, compacting her vertebrae, collapsing her organs, making her shrink.

‘I’ve been Googling,’ Geraldine says as Fran sets the steaming cups of tea on the table, ‘but I haven’t found anything. You’re going to have to help me.’

‘Do what?’

‘Find his address. You’re an IT teacher, you should know where to look.’

Fran regards her mother over the lip of her mug. In her soft violet jumper, double string of pearls, puce painted nails, neat, white elfin hair style and full face of make-up, Geraldine still looks every inch the Colonel’s wife.

‘Why do you want Tom Wade’s address?’ she asks, although she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer.

‘To ask him where Jenna is.’

Fran puts down her mug.

‘What?’ Geraldine asks.

Fran says nothing, but a twitching muscle in her cheek betrays her.

‘She’s not dead,’ Geraldine says. ‘Don’t start all that again. You can throw all the evidence in the world at me but I won’t listen. She’s my child. If she was dead I’d sense it. I’d know.’