The faces in the room mirrored her own puzzlement. ‘Where is my daughter? Please. Her name is—’

‘Transplant survival is about ten years. That’s £67,000 for ten years of life. You can buy your kid a much longer and happier life for just £50,000. That’s what we want. Good old-fashioned cash. All in £20 notes. And you’ll get it by ten this morning, won’t you?’

So, it was about money after all. Just as everyone had claimed. ‘I’ll try my best,’ she said, just as coached. A line that avoided rejection but promised nothing. Her teeth were gritted. ‘I want to speak with my little lady.’

The clenched jaw wasn’t a symptom of fear. There was no fear, surprisingly. Worry for Josie’s safety had momentarily been subdued by anger. This man had taken her everything, and just for money. How she wanted to burn him alive.

‘Been watching too many films, have we? That’s not how this is going to happen.’

‘I want to talk to my daughter. I want proof she’s alive and unhurt.’

‘Alive and unhurt? You could have just said unhurt, since that would also mean she’s alive? We’re going to call your house at ten and tell you where to take the cash. Have it sealed in a freezer bag and inside a typical shoebox. Not Nike, I hate Nike. You better get your arse right out the door when the call comes, okay? On the dot. With the cash. Freezer bag and shoebox. I know you got the cops listening. Tell them to try nothing—’

‘I want proof of life, you…’ She stopped herself just in time. But it didn’t matter:

‘Arse-licking tosspot freak bastard, is that what you were about to call me?’

‘No.’ The fear hurtled back, exploding inside her like a bomb blast. One of Miller’s cards had covered ‘Barbs’ – aggravating points of discussion. Boiled down: never refer to the Hostage Taker’s moral make-up. Never say that his actions were cowardly or insane or unfair. Never insult him. ‘Look, please, I’m sorry. I don’t want my daughter to be hurt. She’s only five. She has breathing problems. Please don’t hurt—’

But he interrupted her with laughter. It was a sound that cut, but it was also good to hear. Laughter meant he wasn’t offended.

‘You mess this up and I’ll send you proof of death instead, how about that? Your kid’s head wrapped in a copy of today’s newspaper. You want that?’

‘No. Please. I just want her unhurt. You can have what you want. I just want her back. She’ll be hungry. But she needs soy milk, because she can’t—’

Again, laughter.

‘You know, this humanising your kid bit only works against people who aren’t raving psychopaths. So stop it. Get my money. Mess this up, I’ll charge you 25p for the newspaper I buy.’

Click.