“Thank you, Mr. Watson. I’ll ask somebody to take down those details before you leave. But if you think of anything else, please get in touch. Particularly any . . . irregularities from your lessons with Freya. Anything at all.”

He didn’t like the way she teased out the syllables of irregularities. It made him think of dodgy football managers or politicians under investigation. One of those euphemisms that meant somebody’s net of secrets was about to unravel.

12.

PAUL

It was two days since he’d last seen his daughter. Since he’d said a hurried, distracted good-bye to her as he’d left for work on Thursday morning. Probably no more hurried or distracted than most weekdays, but still it pained him to think of it. He must’ve dropped a kiss on top of her head as she’d sat on the sofa with a bowl of milky Weetabix in one hand and her phone in the other. Had he wished her a good day at school? Done a subtle “dad-check” of what was on the screen of her phone? He couldn’t remember. Hadn’t known then that he might need to.

Now he was sitting in her favorite sofa spot, unable to contemplate breakfast, staring at his phone. A reply to the message he’d sent during the sleepless early hours of this morning had just come through, making his heart quicken.

If Yvette was shocked to hear from him, she didn’t say so. Her response was characteristically calm, and as concise as his original message had been.

Yes, we can meet, her text said. Where and when?

Paul glanced over at Steph, perched on the chair she’d drawn up to the living room window sometime in the last twenty-four hours and left in place, like a permanent lookout station. In her leggings, with her hair tied up, she looked painfully like Freya. Steph’s ears stuck out the tiniest bit; normally she brushed her hair down over them, whereas Freya always had that life-of-its-own ponytail. Was that Freya’s green scarf Steph had huddled around her neck too?

He tilted his body so there was no chance Steph could see his phone. The action flooded him with guilt. He felt it widening even further, the gulf that had opened between them when he’d asked to speak to the police alone. It had grown when he’d left to visit Glover last night, and he’d been unable to close or even address it when he’d returned to find Steph printing endless missing posters with their daughter’s face.

As soon as possible? he typed. Kingston Bridge?

To his surprise and relief, Yvette came back instantly: I can be there in half an hour.

Did she already know about Freya? Or did she just realize that it must be important for him to contact her out of the blue?