Beyond the house are a number of outbuildings – an unused stable block and another stone building it turns out has been crudely converted into an office that James uses. If she’d wanted to, Hollie could have been hiding in any one of these. No-one would have known.

But why would she hide? Searching each area meticulously takes most of the morning but uncovers nothing. In the stable block are unpacked boxes and old furniture, damp and coated with dust. James’s office is no tidier. When he shows us in, he has the same uncomfortable look I saw last night.

‘Hollie rarely comes in here.’ He pauses, frowning. ‘Have you spoken to her friend yet? Niamh Buckley?’

‘Not yet.’ My eyes scan the books and papers piled messily on the shelves. ‘I’ll go round there later when she’s back from school.’

‘The schools are closed.’ Clearly beside himself with worry, he speaks abruptly. ‘There’s too much black ice – the roads are dangerous.’

I hadn’t known, but given the freezing temperatures, it makes sense. ‘Did Hollie and Niamh go to the same school?’

‘No.’ He speaks tersely. ‘Niamh goes to a private school outside the village. But all the closures were announced on the radio earlier.’

‘I see. I will talk to Niamh, Mr Hampton,’ I try to reassure him. ‘Just as soon as I’ve finished here.’

*

It’s an hour later when I turn into the Buckleys’ drive. On first appearance, it’s clear they live in one of the grander houses in the village. Grey and imposing behind the frost-covered garden, it looks stark and unwelcoming. There are no lights on, no signs of life inside, until a sudden movement catches my eye. Framed in an upstairs window, I see a face.

Niamh

The arctic air clings on, lowering temperatures and producing a fine layer of snow to carpet the ground, while freezing fog blankets out the sun, so that the world is silent for a few days, wrapped in bone-chilling cold. With the roads too icy to be safe, my school is closed.

After pulling on layers of warm clothes, I go for a walk through the village, thinking of a hundred places Hollie would have run off to – like her mother’s grave, or with one of her school friends. As I think of her out in this cold, tears fill my eyes.

There are no lights in any of the windows. Even Ida Jones’s cottage is in darkness. It’s as though the village has descended into an eternal night. Then as I pass some of the villagers on the other side of the road, I realise. Anyone who isn’t at work is probably helping look for Hollie.