After he hangs up, I take a deep breath. Minutes ago, I thought I was about to leave for home. But when a teenage girl goes missing, there is no time to waste. The sooner I get over to Abingworth, the better.

*

Even though the roads are mostly clear, the drive takes longer than I’d expected, the traffic brought to a stop by an accident that’s closed one of the lanes on the dual carriageway. Finally clear of it, I drive too fast, and as I take the exit my car skids briefly on black ice.

Slowing down, I gather my thoughts. All I know about Hollie Hampton is that she hasn’t been seen for two days. Two days is a long time for a teenager to be missing. That her father didn’t call us straight away speaks volumes; that he’s used to her disappearing now and then already setting off alarm bells. Hollie is sixteen years old. If she were my daughter, I wouldn’t have waited.

Following my GPS, I turn into a narrow lane without road markings, edged with crisply frosted grass. A row of cottages comes into view before I pass a number of larger houses set back behind flint walls, slowing down as the lane bends sharply left. A hundred yards ahead, through the trees, a flashing blue light alerts me to the location of the Hamptons’ house.

As far as I can tell in the darkness, it’s a long rambling house set in a shallow valley, surrounded by trees. Pulling over, I park on the sloping drive, then get out and take the rough steps down to what looks like the front door. When I knock, it’s opened straight away by a man who I imagine to be Hollie’s father, judging by his raddled face.

‘Mr Hampton? I’m DS May. May I come in?’

Hollie’s father nods. ‘Yes. Of course.’ After closing the door behind me, he says, ‘I’ll take you to the others.’

I assume he’s talking about the local police. ‘You still haven’t heard anything from your daughter?’

‘No,’ he mutters, his head down as he leads the way.

Inside, it’s obvious the house is old, with wide, uneven floorboards, the timber frame and old brickwork exposed here and there. I take in the air of shabbiness – the poor lighting, the dated wallpaper that’s seen better days – as I follow him to a small sitting room where I recognise one of my colleagues, Sergeant Sarah Collins. She’s with another uniformed policewoman and a fair-haired woman who’s clearly been crying. I assume she must be Hollie’s mother. ‘Mrs Hampton? I’m Detective Sergeant May. I’m going to ask Sergeant Collins to update me and then I’d like to talk to you and your husband. Can you give us five minutes?’