“I’m afraid we can’t share that information yet.” She looks genuinely sorry. Eve feels her own face tighten. She pulls on a coat with clumsy hands as Eric shoves his feet into boots. She watched Igor put Sorrel on his shoulders after a fall; those small legs dangling on either side of the bull neck; even then she’d felt uneasy. If Igor has hurt her daughter she will kill him. She fastens her coat and runs to join the others, her slippers slithering on the icy ground. The dark air seems tinged with red. If he is guilty, she will find a gun and fire it at him. The bullet would make a neat wound in that vast chest. She would fire twice, no, many times, and walk away without a second glance. She follows the little group, hardly aware of the direction. The bungalow is beyond the barns; the place is screened from the house by a strip of pines, the lower branches shaggy and brown. She has walked past without looking for months, years even. The policeman holds the gate open; once inside the trees, the quiet deepens, as though they have stepped underground. The lawn is cut, the path looks swept, even the soil in the beds is as evenly granulated as cake crumbs. The order is menacing, like a prison yard enforced by some obsessive guard; what obsessions drive Igor?

Eric knocks at the door. “Igor, it’s me, Eric. Don’t be scared.”

The door is opened a few inches; Igor’s frowning face appears. It’s all Eve can do not to shove him aside and run past him, screaming her daughter’s name.

“It’s all right,” Eric says quickly. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Igor Kowalski,” the largest policeman intones, “we ask you to accompany us to the station to answer some questions in connection with the disappearance of Sorrel Kershaw.”

Igor opens the door a little farther, still frowning. He looks fatter in his pajamas, his paunch revealed by the soft cloth. His stubble is orange against the pallid white of his skin.

“I’m sure we can clear this up quickly.” Eric steps in front of the policeman and puts a hand on Igor’s shoulder. “I’ll come to the station with you.”

Igor takes in the group on his doorstep; his bulldog face sags. He looks uneasy, guilty even. Eric places his own jacket carefully around his great shoulders. Eve shudders at the thought of those muscles, their brute capability. Eric clearly believes in his innocence; a man is innocent until proved guilty, he would tell her in his measured tone, but it wouldn’t make any difference to the way she feels—Igor looks guilty because he probably is.

“I’m coming too.” She steps forward, puts her hand on Eric’s arm. “I have to be there; I want to know the instant he tells them—”

“You need to be here for Poppy, keep things steady for her,” Eric replies quietly. “I’ll phone as soon as I find out anything.”