At eleven, Martin walked out to his car. He couldn’t stay in the house, waiting, doing nothing, any longer. He had to go and find his little girl.

He decided to start at the park. He pulled up at the entrance and walked through the gates. From somewhere in the darkness he heard talking, and saw the red glow of cigarette tips. He headed towards them.

It was a group of four or five teenagers, boys and girls, all a year or two older than Maggie. They were smoking, bottles dangling from their hands.

‘Excuse me,’ he said.

They turned to look at him, their voices falling silent.

‘Yeah?’ one of the boys said. ‘What?’

‘I was wondering if you’d seen my daughter?’

‘Maybe,’ the boy replied. ‘Who is she?’

‘Maggie. Maggie Cooper.’

The name drew blank looks.

‘I haven’t,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t know her. Any of youse seen her?’

One of the girls stepped forward. She looked younger than the others. ‘I know Maggie,’ she said. Her voice was slurred. ‘We have English together.’

‘Have you seen her?’

The girl shook her head. ‘No. I mean, I seen her at school, but not out.’

‘Do you know where she might be? Are there other places kids hang out?’

The girl looked at her friends and shrugged. ‘In town, maybe. Some kids go to the pubs.’

‘She’s a bit young for that.’

One of the boys laughed. ‘Yeah, mate. They let anyone in, especially girls. They want them in.’

Martin didn’t ask for what. He didn’t need to.

‘Which pub is most likely?’ he said.

‘Could be any.’ The boy sniffed. ‘You’ll have to try them all.’

‘OK,’ Martin said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is she OK?’ the girl asked.

For a moment, Martin didn’t reply. ‘I hope so,’ he said, eventually. ‘I hope so.’

In the car he checked his phone. There were no missed calls, no text messages from Sandra announcing Maggie’s’ return.

It was 23.34. Nearly midnight.

He’d had enough. The best case was she was outside a pub or waiting for a taxi or with some older boyfriend. The worst case was unthinkable.

It was time to call the police.

Twelve Years Earlier, 7 July 2006: Evening

1

Maggie sat on the bed, legs crossed, arms folded, her fingers stroking the smooth skin of her forearm. The light next to the bed was switched on; she had turned it off but there was no other source of light in the room and the darkness was absolute. There was sweat on her back and forehead; although it was not warm in the room she had, for what felt like an age, screamed and shouted and thrown herself against the door in a desperate – and useless – attempt to find a way out.

She was calmer now, but the panic was there, just under the surface.

Because she knew now there was no way out of the room.