‘God, Marian, I’m tired and this is going to be a bastard of a drive. I just want to go home.’

‘Please,’ I say, and how I keep the wobble from my voice I don’t know.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ he sighs. ‘If it’ll get you off my back, I’ll call in. But it’ll be a flying visit.’

My stomach tightens at his tone. I can feel the pulse of a headache behind my eyes.

‘Thank you,’ I say and tell him we’ll see him soon. We. As if I’m sure Nell will be there, which of course I’m not.

To my surprise, I find that I’m tearful. I’m never tearful. It’s not the kind of person I am. I’m not the kind of mother who dabs away tears of pride at school concerts, or who weeps over baby pictures. I have an ability to remain focused and logical in my approach. I had to be that way when Nell was little.

But now? It’s as if something in my very core knows something is wrong.

The emotional umbilical cord I thought I didn’t have is connected to my child after all, and it floods me with all the emotions, all the moments that are now just memories. A feeling there may be no more memories – not good ones anyway – to be made.

I put my hand to my stomach. I don’t know why. It’s as if I hope to feel a movement. To feel a kick. To feel a sign of life. But of course, I think, shaking my head and trying to focus on the drive ahead of me, that’s absurd. It’s not going to happen. It was never going to happen.

I will my logical self to kick back in. To focus on what I can do. What I can change. Feelings won’t help me now. For now, all I need to do is get to Nell’s house as quickly as I can to talk to Clodagh and the police.

God love her, but Clodagh isn’t to be relied on to start a search on her own. She’s a lovely girl but prone to hysteria. Could this just be hysteria? Will she remember that she did in fact speak to Nell yesterday and slap her head in a ‘stupid me!’ move?

No. I’m clutching at straws. And I don’t, as a rule, clutch at straws. But this is different. This is my child. My stomach twists again.

I call Nell’s number once more. Listen to her voice tell me she’ll get back to me. Her sing-song, youthful, full-of-promise voice. I contemplate leaving a message. Pleading with her to call me. Pleading with her to pick up. Ordering her to do what she is told.

But I don’t plead or cry. I end the call and concentrate on driving, finding each change of gear, each brake and acceleration, requiring more effort than usual. This can’t be happening.

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