She had hung around by the gate, arms folded, conscious that she smelt of fags and regretting the bitter taste of the tar in her mouth. It hadn’t even been satisfying. Small groups of families passed her, wrapping their kids up with hugs and praise, occasionally one of them had cast her a sympathetic look and given a half-wave. She hadn’t return the gesture.

Then they had gone and the playground had been empty.

Annoyed, Helena had walked over to the front doors, but as she had been about to go in, they had opened and a dumpy woman half Helena’s height with wild, animal-like hair appeared. Helena had recognised her as the deputy head but the name had escaped her. She had been dressed horribly in purple and brown, a combination that had made her look as though she had put her clothes together from a jumble sale in the 1980s.

‘Oh, Miss Greenwood,’ the woman had said, seemingly surprised to see her. ‘You’re here?’

‘I’m here to pick up Julian. Like always.’

‘But,’ the dumpy woman had faltered. ‘But Julian went home at lunchtime today. I thought you knew.’

Helena’s body had seized up, and what happened next was a blur. Julian had gone home at lunchtime but no one in this fucking useless school could tell her who with, only that the man had said he was Julian’s uncle. The deputy head had descended into panic and went about frantically phoning God knows who. The head was on a golfing holiday in Portugal during bloody term time!

The worst of it was that none of them had been really worried about Julian – Oh, kids go missing all the time, he’ll turn up – they had been worried about their stupid Ofsted rating.

She had pounded her fists on the car door until she had managed to crumple the metal underneath the handle. The dumpy woman had told her to go and cool off while she made tea and phoned the police. In that fucking order!

‘Julian!’ she had shouted aloud. ‘Where the hell have you gone now?’

Now, Helena Greenwood was sitting with her hands pressed together, staring at the phone. The curtains were drawn and the door was bolted. How on earth half of the estate had found out about Julian going missing was a complete mystery, but people who wouldn’t normally have stopped to even wave at her in the street were now, all of a sudden, flooding her mobile with supportive texts and well wishes. A few had even turned up at the door.

‘Can we do anything to help, Helena?’

Yes. You can find my fucking son and bring him back to me!

Helena had smiled, feigned appreciation, and closed the door.

Come on, ring.

‘Julian doesn’t have an uncle,’ she had told the deputy head.

‘Well, he had a letter.’

Stupid fucking woman!

Then there had been the phone call from Dominque.