The nurse smiles and pats my arm. ‘That’s great. I’ll leave a note that the psychiatrist should come and see you tomorrow. Did you remember your name?’

‘Laura,’ I say, the name springing into my head seemingly out of nowhere. ‘My name’s Laura.’

‘I had a dream last night and it was all familiar. I think it was a memory. Where I lived was a farmhouse, right?’ I describe the house from my dream last night, and Ellie nods as PC Oaks takes notes.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she says. ‘So can we assume your memory is starting to come back?’

I shrug. ‘A little.’

‘But you still don’t remember much of your life there? Or where you were going when you were hit by the car?’

‘I remember watching films with Dad. And lots of books at the kitchen table. Oh – and my name – Laura.’

Ellie smiles and writes something in her notebook. ‘Laura. Hello, Laura. It’s lovely to meet you properly. Don’t suppose you remember your surname?’

‘No. Sorry. No idea. Dad called me Laura. Or Lala.’

She nods briskly and jots down something else. ‘You mentioned books. So you can read?’ she asks hesitantly.

I laugh, but it comes out more like a bark. Embarrassing. ‘Of course I can read! I love reading. I read at least one book every week. Dad insists.’ I pause. ‘Insisted.’ Tears well again and I fight them back.

Ellie nods. ‘Good, good. But you still don’t remember if the man …’

‘Dad?’

‘The man you call your dad, if he … hurt you?’

I slam my hands down onto the bed. ‘No! He never hurt me. It’s the last thing he would do. I don’t remember much but I do remember he loved me. As a father should love his daughter. I’d remember if he’d mistreated me. I’m sure I would.’ I pause. ‘I still can’t believe that he abducted me. He was the best dad. There must be some other kind of explanation. I really think you’ve got it wrong.’

Ellie clears her throat. ‘I understand that this must be upsetting for you, but there is no doubt about this. Since we last spoke, we’ve been checking with the various local authorities who have no records of anyone of your age living at your address in their schools, or registered with any doctors’ surgeries. Do you remember if you went to school? Or ever saw a doctor?’

‘I don’t remember,’ I say. I’d seen schools in the films I’d watched with Dad and read about them in books, but I don’t remember going anywhere like that myself. ‘I think Dad taught me at home. And I don’t think I was ever properly ill, not that I remember, so maybe I didn’t need to see a doctor.’