As he approached the liaison room, he caught a glimpse of the woman through the glass. She was heavily pregnant. He stepped inside. She had long black hair tied in a side ponytail and red lipstick that looked out of place on her pale olive skin. There was something a bit fragile about her, the curve of her shoulders maybe. She stood up when she saw him, recognition on her face. His was not a name she had picked out of a hat. He didn’t recognise her at all.

‘I’m DS Miles, I believe you wanted to speak to me?’

‘Yes, thank you for seeing me.’ He noticed she didn’t say her name.

‘What’s your name and how can I help you?’

‘My husband is missing.’

‘How long has he been gone?’

‘A few weeks now.’

‘What makes you think he is missing? Is it possible he’s just … taken some time out?’

‘No, that’s not possible. He’s not like that,’ she said emphatically, brows furrowed in concern.

He had seen things like this before though, especially when a pregnancy was involved. Husband decides family life isn’t for him and takes off.

‘So, what do you think has happened?’ he asked.

‘Something terrible.’

‘Do you think he is in danger?’

‘Not him, no. Not exactly.’

She reached down for her bag, which was on the floor by her feet. She pulled out an envelope and started to thumb at the edges nervously. Adrian saw something then, a flash of something familiar on her face, her dark brown eyes, so lost and vulnerable. He had met this woman before, but where did he know her from? Ask her for a name.

‘What is that?’

‘I found it on my doorstep this morning. This is his writing. He obviously wanted me to deliver it to you.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Why did you come to me if you can’t trust me?’

‘He said I would be able to, he seemed to think you would know what to do if he went missing.’

That was a strange thing to say. Her husband had told her what to do if he disappeared? That changed everything. Why was her husband expecting to go missing? Ask for a name.

Adrian watched her for a moment, trying to remember her. His long-term memory for faces was exceptionally bad. She was different though. Her hair hadn’t been black before, and it hadn’t been long like this; he saw shoulder-length hair in his mind, a mousy brown. A mousy girl. His skin recognised her before his mind had caught up, his hairs standing up on end and a creeping chill up his spine. A name.

‘Can you tell me your husband’s name?’ He held out his hand, ready to accept the envelope from her. His name was written on the front. Some of the questions he had had about this case had suddenly been answered. Her face changed too, knowing now that he had recognised her. The air got thicker as she lifted the envelope and placed it in his hand.