I put my foot down to get to the workshop, pulling up outside and racing around the space in case she’s hiding, and asking Finn if she mentioned anywhere special when the two of them were chatting. No. I have nothing else to go on.

When I get back into the jeep, I force myself to slow down. Where else has Casey been? Weston? I guess she might have got a bus or a train to the coast . . .

Gemma might know.

Gemma must hate me now. But she could be the key to all this. Casey might have gone to see her, or to the Downs, or . . .

The spectre of the deadly steepness of Avon Gorge fills my head. No. Not that.

As I drive towards Clifton Village I dial Gemma’s number – it rings twice, then goes to voicemail, and I take a deep breath before speaking:

‘I know I shouldn’t bother you. Especially not with what’s going on for you. And I have no right to ask, but it’s Casey. She’s gone. She’s upset and she’s gone, and we don’t have a clue where. So please call me back, because Casey talked to you more than anyone else.’

I ring off, hoping that she won’t delete my voicemail without listening to it.

Before I’ve even got to the end of Regent Street, Gemma’s calling me back.

‘Where have you been so far?’ she says, straight down to business.

‘Everywhere I can think of,’ I reply, ‘except near you. I’m in the jeep, heading towards the bridge and the Downs.’

‘Pick me up. Two are better than one.’

Chapter 42: Gemma

I must be resolute when he arrives. Daren’t look him in the eye. Or even at his face. And when he speaks, I will not listen to that voice, but will focus purely on the information that could lead us to Casey.

It’s the only way I can handle this.

But when I see him through my balcony window, parking up his jeep, my body betrays me. A wave of heat passes through me. Except, who am I trying to kid – it’s lust, always has been, from that first meeting. But now a chill, too. This man is a liar and a con man.

Could the call about Casey be a way to get back into my life? He must be frustrated that the groundwork he’s laid with me has been wasted. Makes more sense for him to try one final time, rather than find some other ‘mark’ to manipulate.

‘Right, Bear. No jumping up, no licks, no—’

But Bear is already poking his nose through the balustrade, yelping. Dan sees him, and me, and the despair on his face seems utterly real.

‘So much for you being a good judge of character, mate,’ I say to the dog, before pushing my feet into my sandals. It takes more effort than usual, because the skin seems tender, swollen. Is that caused by the humidity that’s lingering, despite the rain, or by something more?