What if Bella is dying of exposure and dehydration right now, metres away from playgroup, and we’ve all walked straight past her?

After soaking in the hot bath, Marty was walking more normally. He gobbled down the stew, took a sleeping tablet then collapsed into bed upstairs.

I’d wanted to be alone but suddenly I couldn’t bear it. When will the police call off the search? It was a thought that I tried to push away again and again. We can keep searching ourselves, Imogen’s husband would organise it. But the police had trained search and rescue teams, they had helicopters and infrared technology, sniffer dogs, communications and bushwalking equipment. If they couldn’t find her, what hope did we have?

No, she couldn’t be in a ditch nearby. So many people had covered every piece of ground much further than a three-year-old could walk.

But what then?

Abduction.

The possibility pressed its way into my brain, I gagged and spat into the kitchen sink.

I rinsed Marty’s plate, watching the remnants of Mel’s stew swirl down the drain. She’d been so kind to cook for us. Imogen had set up the Facebook page, organised posters and encouraged people to join the search. Even Tara had been helpful. But this morning not one of the mums had come into playgroup. By lunchtime, I was wondering if they’d seen the newspaper article and disowned me. That was what had happened in Manchester.

But then Imogen had called.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she’d said and, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I’d thought she meant Bella.

‘It must have been such a horrendous time for you,’ she continued. ‘I know it’s not the same, but I was devastated after my miscarriage. I can’t imagine the pain you felt.’

It had been so long since I’d discussed it that I didn’t know what to say. My family and friends barely talked about him. I knew they were trying to protect me.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, grateful for her kindness.

‘We’re still asking for help on the Facebook site,’ she said. ‘We’ve had lots of people sharing Bella’s photo and details.’

What else were they sharing since the story had broken this morning—insults and vitriol? The last time our photo had been in the newspaper we’d had death threats. That hate site and all those web pages were still up there. I didn’t want that connected with Bella.

Later, Mel had called and been equally caring, but then she’d asked an intensely personal question.

‘Did you have him buried or cremated?’

Was it the earth mother in her—wanting to know about our spirituality, perhaps? I was too exhausted to fob her off.

‘We buried him with my mother,’ I told her. ‘Mum died of breast cancer a few years before.’