‘She was pleased,’ Eve whispers. ‘Sorrel’s making good progress, physically. The child psychologist is coming this afternoon.’ Eve watches an ambulance swerve into the hospital. It’s lucky that you can’t see into an ambulance from the outside; that desperate struggle to save a life should be private. She turns away from the flashing blue light, the phone tight to her ear. ‘Any news?’

‘Melly phoned this morning.’ Grace leaves a little pause like the one doctors give you before they break bad news.

‘Go on.’

‘Are you somewhere you can sit down?’

‘I’m sitting down already.’

As Grace begins to speak, Eve watches the rain hit against the windscreen and the traffic splash by but she doesn’t hear any of it. The noises from the street have faded, everything has faded apart from the words she is hearing. Paedophiles make up eight per cent of the population, information gleaned from Google when Sorrel was missing, not easy to forget. A young bloke with a ponytail speeds by on his bike – could he be a paedophile? Or the guy in a suit hurrying past with a briefcase? That old man shuffling to the bus? Paul was a charmer, handsome, amusing, she had liked him; how could they have possibly known?

‘… then Izzy told the court he’d hurt Melly,’ Grace is continuing. ‘The scar on her face is still obvious; things like that can tip the balance.’

Paul might have hit Sorrel too, at the very least he must have terrified her. A few moments pass while Eve treads down horror. She glances in the driving mirror; Sorrel is still fast asleep.

‘How is Melly?’ she manages. ‘I haven’t seen her for weeks.’

‘Better than you’d think,’ Grace tells her. ‘She’s stepped up, like you.’

‘Izzy?’

‘That child’s made of steel. I’ve had my issues with Izzy but I understand her better now. Melly’s going to make sure she gets the help she needs.’

There is another little pause; there’s so much Eve wants to say to Grace, it’s hard to know where to begin: her gratitude, the guilt, the lasting regret, the value of her friendship.

‘Grace …’

‘Take care.’ Then Grace is gone.

Sorrel’s thumb has slipped from her mouth; she is snoring lightly. The thought of her daughter in Paul’s hands is obscene. She had guessed the moment she saw the tiara in his car, but guessing is different from knowing; imagining is different from seeing, and she can see Paul clearly now, see the look on his face as he forced Sorrel into the boot of his car, then into the chest in his shed. Eve shudders. The doctors had said there was no evidence of sexual abuse. Her gaze lingers on the sweet, sleeping face of her daughter; she’s been incredibly unlucky, and also, lucky.