Angry, but unsure why, she ran out of the room, ordering those who wanted to restrain her to give her a minute. She headed around the nearby corner, where there was a bench in a windowed alcove. She knelt on it and stared out at a small illuminated garden enclosed by four walls. The mobile was in her hands, already ringing Father’s number. He answered quickly, clear hope in his voice, and she cut it down immediately.

‘They want money. £50,000. I’m sorry.’

She hung up and turned off the phone, loath to take a return call. She had promised to contact him if they got word about Josie, and obviously he’d assumed her call was good news. But it so wasn’t. She tried not to think about Father refusing to pay.

She stared at the window, but no longer saw the garden beyond. Instead, playing there as if upon a screen: images of Josie tied up in a dark room and crying.

The movie ended when she heard footsteps closing, and a voice say, ‘Answer, you dick.’ It was the foul male detective constable, Nabi. He stopped a few feet away, just around the corner, and she listened to him moaning about the person he was calling not picking up the phone. Another voice, even his, made it easier to dispel those vile images from her skull.

She was beginning to calm down, but then she overheard Nabi say, ‘Ah, hello. I called a few minutes ago. Someone said you’d have an ETA on a cadaver dog. Detective Constable Zesh Nabi, down here in—’

‘Cadaver dogs?’ Anna hissed.

He jumped and turned to see her standing just feet from him, as if having appeared out of thin air.

‘Dogs trained to find dead people, is that right? You people think my daughter is dead?’

Phone to his ear, Nabi just stared at her, clearly unsure of what to say next. She wanted to hit him but knew he didn’t deserve to be the object she vented her anger on. Instead, she punched the wall, once, twice, and would have landed a third blow, but Nabi grabbed her arms, calling out for assistance. She sank to her knees.

Five

2.45 a.m.

He’s awake before the alarm dings, probably because he spent the previous evening terrified that it would also wake his wife. Fifteen minutes to go. He dresses, and takes his mobile phone from the bedside table, and exits the bedroom. He’s nervous as hell about the phone call. He will do it in the living room, because this is not a call his wife can overhear. If she wakes and wonders why he’s up, he’ll jokingly blame the Devil’s Hour, the infiltration of something paranormal into his mind. She might doubt his sanity, but that’s better than her knowing the truth…

‘And who did you call?’