His skin was clammy as he wrestled on a T-shirt and jeans. Vicky watched him, her pale gaze asking: What’s going on? Chris pushed past her and stumbled down the hall, his damp feet slipping on the garish carpet they’d deemed so-awful-it’s-awesome when they’d first moved in.

“Hello!” he said to the detectives, who were hovering just inside the flat, peering brazenly into the nearest rooms. He wished now that he’d told Vicky all about their previous inquiries. He could have played it down—of course they’d want to talk to him, the missing girl’s driving instructor.

She had followed him. “What’s this about?”

“Freya, I’d imagine.” Chris tried to strike the right tone: concerned for the girl, not for himself. “Happy to help,” he chirruped to the detectives. “Would you like to do this at the station?”

They left him hanging, all three of them silent. Then Ford said, “That won’t be necessary.” She opened her notebook as Chris caught his breath. “It’s about the route you took with Freya on March the fifteenth.”

“Hang on,” Vicky said. “Was this the day the Harlow girl actually disappeared?”

Chris tried to talk over her. “The route . . . I submitted it . . .”

“You taught her that day, Chris?”

“Vicky.” He glanced toward her, a pulse thumping in his neck. “Can we talk about this later? The detectives must be very busy.” Turning back to them, he spoke in a panic: “It’s a common driving-lesson loop.”

“So you’re certain that’s the way you went?”

“Yes.”

“Would you take another look?” Ford thrust a piece of paper at him. Chris cast his eyes over the street names swimming on the page. He was aware of Vicky peering over his shoulder; he glanced at her and the red lips surprised him again.

“You stand by this?” Detective Johnson asked.

“As far as I remember. I teach a lot of students, so the lessons sometimes blur.”

“Anywhere else you think you might have been?”

They were giving him a chance to save himself from whatever had brought them back here. But Chris couldn’t think clearly enough.

“I . . . really don’t remember.”

Ford snatched back the paper. “We just wanted to confirm.”

They turned to go, and Chris wiped his palms on his jeans. But it was almost like a deliberate feint on the detectives’ part: Ford paused halfway out of the door, swiveling back. “Actually, while we’re here, could we look in your car?”

“My car?”

“If we could do it with your cooperation . . .”

“Why?” Vicky broke in. “What do you need to search his car for?”

“We’re just covering all bases.”