Joe looked over at Michael and Rosie. They appeared to be in their own world. Michael, with his arm around Rosie’s shoulders, looked as though he was about to explode, whereas Rosie, normally so in control, was white-faced and trembling.

‘I cannot say this loud enough: do not, I repeat, do not go anywhere near that man. Do you understand? Michael, you take Rosie back to the shop and stay with her. We will keep you informed of everything that happens.’

It was apparent from the expression on Michael’s face that this would not be happening. ‘I will not! I will search every corner of this village for my daughter.’

Joe didn’t argue. With the arrival of Mr Keene, they had four cars between them, and that would be crucial in getting people about. He looked down on the sea of upturned faces: women wearing widow’s weeds and men with brooding eyes peering back up at him from under the rims of their oversized caps. They were a motley bunch, but they were all he had to work with.

‘Mr Keene, can we use your car please?’

Mr Keene touched his hat. ‘You most certainly can. I am happy to drive. However, my advice is that, despite the instructions in the letter, you call the guard and you, er, lose the guns.’

‘We will talk about that later,’ said Joe.

As volunteers for the search parties put up their hands and split off into four groups, Mrs Doyle turned her attention to Matron and Dr Gaskell. ‘Come along inside and let’s get a cup of tea in you – you look very peaky,’ she said to Matron.

‘You go along inside with the postmistress,’ said Dr Gaskell. ‘I’ll go with Mr Keene and see if I can help in any way. This appears to be a village in crisis.’

Peggy and Keeva ran in ahead of Mrs Doyle. ‘Don’t you be worrying, Mrs Doyle, we’ll take care of everyone here,’ said Peggy. ‘Rosie has gone to fetch more milk and tea. She won’t be staying in the shop with all this going on.’

Matron allowed herself to be led by the arm into the back of the post office, where Keeva pulled out a high-backed wooden chair. She was clutching her poster in its homemade cardboard wallet to her chest. ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ were the only words she said for some time.

*

Bridget and Bee had slipped off their shoes and rolled up their skirts, tucked the hems into their knickers and, with lobster pots hanging from their arms, were combing the shore and the rock pools for seaweed.

‘Holy Mother, ’tis freezing,’ said Bee.

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve used the last batch today and that leg ulcer of Nola’s isn’t going to heal itself, so I need fresh supplies. You can come with me tomorrow and I’ll show you how it works in practice.’

Bee had been amazed at how quickly Nola’s ulcer had improved, despite her ignoring the advice to rest her leg.