So he and Sandra and James and his brother, Tony, and his friend from work, Reid, and Freddie, his neighbour, had spent the day looking for her. Between them they’d gone to every pub in Warrington and Manchester and Liverpool and Wigan and St Helens and anywhere else they could think of, and shown them a photo of Maggie.

None of them remembered seeing her. Quite a few said they couldn’t be sure.

Busy night, mate. Lots of people in here. Have you tried the cops?

He had. They hadn’t done much. They were looking for her, but they still thought she’d show up.

He’d lost track of the number of times he’d heard someone say most of the time teenagers do.

Most of the time wasn’t good enough. And Martin knew his little girl. She hadn’t gone off with a new boyfriend, enjoying herself while her parents worried. Some teenagers would – and maybe they were the ones that showed up – but not Mags. Not his Fruitcake.

If she was missing there was a reason, and he needed to find her.

He hadn’t, though. He came home, eventually, at one a.m., flat and exhausted and terrified. He’d slept, for those two hours.

And now he was awake. He didn’t know when he would ever be able to sleep again.

2

Next to him, Sandra rolled on to her side. Her breathing quickened and she sighed.

‘Are you awake?’ he said.

‘Yes. I barely slept.’

‘Me neither.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘It’s four thirty-seven.’

Their bedroom door opened slowly. James stood in the frame. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I was waiting for you to wake up.’

‘You should have come in,’ Martin said. He felt a surge of love for his son. ‘Anytime you need me, I’m here.’

‘It’s early.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Dad,’ James said. ‘Can we go and look for her?’

Martin replaced the nozzle in the petrol pump and walked across the garage forecourt to pay. The car had been full the day before, but he had driven every street and park and country road for miles around. Martin had marked the ones they had driven on a map with a fluorescent marker and there were very few left. He had driven slowly, James looking out of one side, him looking out of the other. At every open pub or newsagent or café or clothes shop or place that looked like it might have attracted a fifteen-year-old they had stopped and shown photos of Maggie.

No one had seen her.

He scanned the shop as he entered, in case Maggie was inside buying chewing gum or a magazine or a packet of cigarettes. He hoped she was. He hoped he found his fifteen-year-old daughter buying cigarettes, because then he would know she was safe.