‘Then there’s Walter Kwok,’ he went on. ‘Frank Sinatra Junior, the list goes on and on. All sons of wealthy men, taken in an effort to extort their family’s wealth. That’s what this is. It has to be.’

The officer taking their report waited patiently for Fisher to stop ranting. He was a big man who had apparently missed a small patch of black whiskers on his morning shave. They poked out from a tuft on his left cheek, and Kate found it hard not to stare. He’d given his name, but Kate hadn’t caught it, and the nametag on his breast pocket was too faded to read.

‘Does John have any identifiable scars or tattoos?’ the officer asked, when there was room in the conversation to ask it.

‘I feel like you’re not listening to me,’ Fisher said. ‘This family is worth a lot of money. We should be, I don’t know, tapping phones, preparing for the ransom call. And yes, he has a jagged scar on his left forearm from where he came off a swing when he was nine.’

‘That’s not right,’ Kate said. ‘He had a plastic surgeon fix it before our wedding. He hated that scar. I liked it, but he hated it. He said it looked like a baked bean.’

The officer two-finger-typed the answer into his computer, then read the next question off the monitor. ‘Any medical conditions that may affect his vulnerability?’

‘No,’ said Kate.

‘Does John take any prescription medication?’

‘Can you imagine if it was a woman that had gone missing?’ Fisher asked, joining them at the desk. ‘You’d have helicopters out and sniffer dogs and you’d be going door to door.’

‘Does he have a history of drug or alcohol dependency?

‘No,’ Kate said.

‘Has your husband ever expressed suicidal ideations?’ he asked, in a tone dryer than unbuttered toast.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Fisher said. ‘No, of course not. John’s a normal guy. He’s happy.’

I wonder if that’s true, Kate thought. It was starting to feel less like they were talking about her husband, and more about a stranger. Filing a missing person report, she was quickly learning, was not unlike applying for a loan or sitting for a job interview: there were dozens of questions and each one made her feel more ignorant and naive.

‘What do you do, Mrs Keddie?’ the officer asked.

Kate hated that question. ‘I’m a stay-at-home mother.’

‘You have kids?’

‘A daughter. Mia. She’s ten. It didn’t feel right to send her to school so she’s with her grandmother.’

The officer noticed a speck of muck on his space bar and gave it a polish with a well-licked finger. ‘Does your husband enjoy being a doctor?’

‘A physician,’ Fisher corrected. ‘And yes, he does. He enjoys it very much.’