“He sent a book a few days ago. A guide to being a better parent, with a raw egg smashed inside. I’m pretty sure that’s been reported to the police already. Steph Harlow thought it was meant for her and Paul, but I think it may have been aimed at me . . .”

The officer started scribbling. Emma followed the jerky movement of his pen on the page. Things were meshing together; she didn’t know what was linked and what was separate, coincidental. The exterior door opened and the other PC came in. Emma was glad of the brief interruption so she could collect her thoughts. But her head snapped round as she glimpsed, through the closing door, a familiar figure standing beyond the press pack, staring around at the once-quiet street that now thrummed with the mayhem of a missing teenager.

Surprise flooded her with such force that she ran outside. A few reporters clicked their cameras, as if they thought surely she must be flying toward the missing girl, because otherwise why would her arms be straining forward? Why would there be tears on her cheeks?

46.

CHRIS

Chris had found himself plunged into a spiral of repeated questions. All the same ones they’d asked about Freya before, but with a new gravitas hanging over them, and a camera now recording from the corner of the interview room. And there was extra stuff, too, personal stuff. They seemed to know exactly which nerves to hit when it came to his marriage and his insecurities.

Now his “alleged route” from his last lesson with Freya was being waved around again. Chris felt beaten up. Why didn’t they just get on with whatever they wanted to say about it?

Eventually they did.

“Your number plate was picked up by a speed camera,” Ford said, “at thirteen forty-two on March the fifteenth. Three miles from where you should’ve been at that time, according to your version of the route.”

Chris shifted. “I told you my memory might not have been completely accurate.”

“But shouldn’t you have been heading back toward Freya’s school at that time? Instead you were going in the opposite direction.”

His mind swam. Would a speed camera have been able to tell who was driving? Would it show two figures arguing in the front of the car?

How much could a camera reveal about the relationship between a driving instructor and his student?

Chris resorted to sarcasm. “I’m not sure how much you know about driving lessons, but the idea isn’t to take the most direct route to where you want to go. The idea is to practice driving.”

“You wouldn’t have had enough time to get back to Freya’s school by two p.m.”

“We were running a bit late, as it happens.”

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No. Is there anything else you’ve failed to mention?”