Because then he would have her back, and he could sleep and eat and breathe and live again.

He handed his card to the shop assistant.

‘Number six,’ he said. As she rang it up, he put the photos of Maggie – one a close-up of her face taken a couple of weeks ago, the other her school portrait – on the counter.

‘You haven’t seen this girl, have you?’ he asked.

The woman – about his age and with a pinched, smoker’s face – gave him a suspicious look.

‘No,’ she said. ‘She missing?’

‘Yes. She’s my daughter.’

The looked softened into one of sympathy.

‘Oh. How long’s she been gone?’

‘Two nights.’

Just saying it made him feel sick with worry. It had a similar effect on the woman.

‘Two nights is two nights too long,’ she said. ‘Hold on. I’ll be right back.’

She picked up the photos and walked through a door into an office. A few minutes later she came back holding a sheaf of paper.

‘Photocopies,’ she said. ‘I can hand them out, see if anyone recognizes her. Give me your number and I’ll make sure we let you know.’

Martin wrote down his phone number, in part glad of the help, and in part terrified.

Because it suddenly felt all the more real.

3

They got home at nine. There was a car parked in the driveway next to Sandra’s red Ford Focus. A dark blue Honda Civic with a large dent in the boot. Martin stiffened.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said. He pulled up at the side of the road and opened the car door. ‘Let’s go and see.’

James followed him into the house. He had large dark circles under his eyes and a drawn look. Martin put his arm around him and kissed his forehead. It was oily; his son was giving off a pungent, hormonal smell.

‘It’ll be OK,’ Martin said. ‘Really, it will.’

He was trying his best, but he wasn’t sure he was able to sound like he really believed his own words.

In the living room, Sandra was perched on the edge of the sofa. She had a mug of tea in her hands. A woman with short, dark hair was sitting in the armchair opposite her.

‘Hi,’ she said. She didn’t need to ask if he had found Maggie. She gestured at the woman.

‘This is Detective Inspector …’ her voice tailed off.

‘Wynne,’ the woman said. ‘DI Jane Wynne.’ She looked at Martin, her face still and expressionless. There was a questioning, intelligent look in her eyes. ‘I’m here about Margaret.’

‘Maggie,’ Martin said, reflexively. ‘We call her Maggie.’

Wynne nodded. ‘Maggie,’ she said. ‘You reported her missing two nights ago, around midnight.’ She paused, her expression carefully neutral. ‘Even though most of these cases resolve quite quickly, we do feel that this case requires more attention.’