According to Sarah she was able to meet Kenny regularly for two months and we never noticed that. Christ, we must be brutal parents. Our own daughter, meeting a stranger on a regular basis and we didn’t have a clue. I feel so guilty. When I get her back, things are going to change. I’m not spending my life chasing my tail and blow-drying everyone else’s hair, while my kids run around doing whatever they want behind my back.

After what feels like a lifetime, we pull up outside the Hotel on Burgh Quay. There’s a cop car parked outside, yellow stripes, lights flashing. Tom pulls in behind the vehicle just as two policemen walk out of the hotel entrance. One of them is holding a phone to his ear. Before Tom has a chance to switch off the engine I jump out of the car.

‘Is she here?’ I say, running towards the man in uniform. He hasn’t a clue who this mad woman is shouting at him. ‘I’m Amber’s mother. Is she here?’

The cop shakes his head, extinguishing the small flame of hope that gently shimmered inside me. For a moment I think I might collapse. My legs wobble beneath my shaking body. Vision blurs. Stop. I can’t. I don’t have Amber yet. Pull it together, Sal. More deep breaths, in out, in out, dragging strength on board. I can’t lose it now. I have to find Amber.

Tom leans forward, his hands pressing on his knees, his eyes staring at the ground. Is he going to be sick? Putting my arm across his back, I find myself consoling him for the first time since Amber disappeared.

The cops explained to us, no woman called Joyce McCarthy had checked in to the hotel. They double-checked with the station, this is definitely the hotel they have on file. Joyce McCarthy told them she was staying here, she lied.

My mind fills with darkness. Visions of Amber lying scared on the floor of some barren room enter my head. Her eyes wet with tears, her hands and feet tied. Her little body shivering with cold and fear, wondering when we’ll get there, when we’ll come to save her. ‘We’re on our way, Amber,’ I say out loud to the night, hoping my words will somehow reach her.

I want to ask how could that happen? How could someone, a suspect in a murder case, get away with giving a false address? But feeding my anger will only use up my energy, distract me from what I must do, so I let it go for now. I’ll come back to it.

‘So, Tom, what do we do now? Where do we go?’ Tom’s eyes are emptier than a field in a famine. I’ve never seen the man this broken.