Chloe pushes open the thick heavy doors to the police station. She scans the benches that line the walls in case Nan is waiting there in reception. She can almost picture her: a puzzled face, shivering from the cold, but there, all the same. Instead a skinny man sits in a battered leather jacket and dirty jeans, and a woman in her fifties opposite clutches her handbag as though it contains precious forensic evidence.

Chloe walks up to the reception desk and presses the bell. An overweight woman slumps slowly towards the window.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m enquiring about my nan, she’s missing. I just want to know if there’s been any news?’

‘Name?’

‘My name?’

‘Your grandmother’s.’

‘Oh, Grace Hudson.’

‘Has an officer been in touch with you to say there’ve been any developments?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Then I think it’s fair to assume there haven’t been any sightings. Have we got your contact details in case any of our officers need to get in touch?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Then we’ll be in touch if there’s any further news.’

The woman goes to walk away but Chloe taps quickly on the safety glass.

‘Please, I . . . Can I just speak to the officer I spoke with yesterday? It’s important.’

‘Do you have new information?’

‘No, I just need to know they’re doing everything they can.’

The woman rolls her eyes a little and taps something into her keyboard, then she picks up her phone to make a call.

‘He’s coming down.’

‘Thank you.’

She slopes off back to her crossword.

Chloe sits down on the benches, next to the woman clutching her handbag. The woman shuffles an inch away.

Chloe waits for twenty minutes before PC Dunn puts his head around the door.

‘Chloe? Do you want to come through?’

She follows him – too slowly it seems. He walks quickly, weaving this way and that through the corridors, through double doors – another set – and she struggles to keep up. He’s tall, well over six feet, and his straight black trousers don’t quite meet his ankles. He chooses a different interview room today and they sit down. He takes out the same tiny notepad from his top pocket and the same tiny pen.

‘I hear you have some further information for us?’

‘Well, no, I . . . I just wondered if there’s been any news?’

He sighs, shaking his head and putting the lid back on his pen. ‘Not as yet, I’m afraid, but you can rest assured we’re doing all we can.’

Chloe can’t help but think of the woman and her crossword behind the desk.

‘We did manage to speak to the social worker, what was her name . . .?’ He flicks back a few pages in his notepad as Chloe’s hands squeeze one another in her lap.

‘Claire Sanders.’