‘I wonder what made her like that.’

‘Who knows,’ his dad said. ‘But I don’t think people like that are made. I think they’re born. It’s in them, somehow.’

Tom paused. He pictured Joanna in her crib, pictured her grey-green eyes. She was Alice’s daughter, as well as his. He tried to ignore the thought, but it was impossible to push away. What if she was like Alice?

He walked into the kitchen. His dad was sitting at the table. He put his hands on the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet, wincing with pain.

‘Sit down,’ Tom said. ‘It’s OK.’

His dad waved his objection aside. ‘Come here.’

He held out his arms and Tom hugged him. It was years since he had hugged his dad.

‘I’m glad you’re OK, son,’ his dad said. ‘And Jo, too. I couldn’t have taken it if anything had happened to her. To either of you.’

‘We’re OK now.’ His dad sat down and Tom took the seat next to him. ‘I heard you talking,’ he said. ‘About how Alice was. And it made me wonder about Jo.’

‘Wonder what?’ his dad said. ‘If she’s like Alice?’

He nodded. ‘Exactly.’

His dad stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘I know that girl, and she’s a superstar. She’s nothing like Alice.’

‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘After she drugged me, Alice told me about her life. She told me that her mum knew what she was when she was very young. She never cried, never played with the other kids, never seemed interested in her mum.’

‘That’s nothing like Jo,’ his mum said. ‘Nothing at all. She’s a sweet little thing.’

Upstairs, Jo began to wail.

His mum smiled.

‘I think she’s going to be fine, Tom. You both are.’

DI Wynne

Wynne settled her phone on the table. She had just heard from the local police force.

They had found Andrea Petersen’s car on a side street in Carlisle, about a hundred yards from the bus station. Wynne was fairly certain what she had done. Dumped the car, and caught a bus to destinations unknown.

Andrea Petersen had done this before, so she knew the drill. She’d have had a stash of cash, travel documents, and something to change her appearance. Every cop in the area was looking for a woman with short, dark hair, but she might now have long blonde or short red hair. She could also be anywhere. Points north led her to Scotland. Points south to Leeds or Manchester or Liverpool. Places with ports and airports and millions of people to disappear into.

And Petersen knew how to disappear.

Wynne would keep looking. She had nothing if not perseverance.

But she knew, in her bones, that Andrea Petersen – Alice Sark – was gone.

For now.