Why have a chain on the back door? Nobody has a chain on the back door. And when we have that great big gate out there? Isn’t this a little bit of overkill?

I imagine someone creeping upstairs in the dead of night. Stealing my beautiful daughter. But Skywalker would have barked. Liberty would have shouted and fought. And none of her things would be missing …

No. That’s not what happened.

Liberty crept downstairs – probably early in the morning, after I’d fallen asleep. Skywalker was close at her heels. She carried her army bag stuffed with clothes. The front door would be too noisy, she wouldn’t risk it. Instead she headed out the back way, softly slipping the chain from its metal tunnel. She carefully took Skywalker’s leash from the hook and clicked it to his collar.

Now she’s outside, alone in the dark, heading to the front gate. She knows exactly where she’s headed. She’s going to see her father …

I hear myself scream her name. ‘LIBERTY!’

Okay.

Calm. Calm.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She could have gone to a friend’s house.

Call Liberty’s phone, I think. Just call her. But then I realize I took her phone last night.

Call the police then. You know the number …

I grab my own phone from the solar charging station.

I’ve called the police so many times about Liberty. I am the woman who cried wolf.

‘Hello, what is your emergency?’

For a stupid second, I jump at a disembodied voice:

‘Oh! Hey. Hello. Police.’ And then I add a British, ‘Please.’

There’s a slight delay as I’m connected.

‘Sussex police. Can I take your name?’

‘My daughter. She’s gone. She’s … she’s run away.’

‘Can I have your full name and address?’

‘She’s called Liberty. Liberty Miller. She’s tall. Nearly five foot ten. Very thin. Tanned skin. Green eyes and brown hair, but she’s cut it short, like chin length, and dyed it blonde. Well, parts of it. Bright blonde. I think she left early this morning.’

I’m crying now, trying to hold it together.

‘We need your name, madam, before we can take details.’

‘My name?’ My throat tightens. ‘Why? Why do you need my name?’

‘It’s just the way we do things.’

Of course. Of course they have to take my name. They always take my name. Nothing to worry about.

‘Lorna,’ I say. And then I add Nick’s surname, even though we’re not married yet. ‘Lorna Armstrong. We live at Iron Bridge Farm, Taunton Wood.’

The policewoman is soothing. ‘First things first. Are there any friends your daughter could have gone to?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know who her friends are. If I did, I’d have Facebook stalked them by now and harassed their phone lines.’