‘She was out in town this morning with Fern. Me and Mark met her at McDonald’s. We were going to hang out tonight. She said she’d call when she was home and I could come and watch a film.’

‘She’s not back yet. You haven’t seen her since this morning?’

‘She said she was going to Anne’s this afternoon.’ Kevin hesitated. ‘At least, I think she did.’

‘She told me that, too,’ Martin replied. ‘But Anne hasn’t seen her.’

‘Maybe Anne wasn’t there when Mags showed up,’ Kevin said. ‘She would have gone to Fern’s.’

‘Thanks. I’ll try her there.’

Martin hung up, then selected Fern from speed-dial. She had a place on it, unlike Kevin, which he had heard Kevin ask Maggie about. He’d sounded a little desperate, and Maggie had sounded a little exasperated. He wasn’t sure how much longer their relationship would last. He’d be sorry to see Kevin go; he was solid and unthreatening, and Martin preferred that to some nineteen-year-old thug with a driving licence and a car that struggled through its MOT every year.

Fern answered. She had no more information than Kevin; she had seen Maggie that morning and thought she was planning to go to Anne’s. She ended the call by offering to call around and see if anyone knew anything.

Martin was about to say, No, don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll show up, but he caught himself.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be very helpful.’

2

Martin turned the gas hob on and put a pan of water on it. He stirred the Bolognese sauce. As the water began to bubble he heard the front door open.

Here she is, he thought, and walked out of the kitchen and into the hall.

It was Sandra and James. James was in his football kit, his bag over his shoulder. He slung it on to the stairs.

‘Don’t leave that blocking the stairs,’ Sandra said. ‘Go and put it away. And tidy your room while you’re up there.’ She looked at Martin and shook her head. ‘He’s a savage,’ she said.

Martin didn’t answer. She frowned. ‘Everything OK?’

Martin had a tense, almost nauseous, feeling in his stomach. Even though there was probably a simple explanation, he couldn’t avoid thinking the worst. He knew he was unnecessarily anxious, what his mum had called a ‘worry-wart’; whenever Sandra was out at night he couldn’t go to sleep until she was home, visions of car crashes or worse swimming in his head – but knowing he worried too much didn’t help. He was not the kind of father or husband or son who could relax and wait for news to come under the assumption it would be good. For him, no news was always bad news.