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One of the girls stepped forward. She looked younger than the others. ‘I know Maggie,’ she said. Her voice was slurred. ‘We have English together.’

‘Have you seen her?’

The girl shook her head. ‘No. I mean, I seen her at school, but not out.’

‘Do you know where she might be? Are there other places kids hang out?’

The girl looked at her friends and shrugged. ‘In town, maybe. Some kids go to the pubs.’

‘She’s a bit young for that.’

One of the boys laughed. ‘Yeah, mate. They let anyone in, especially girls. They want them in.’

Martin didn’t ask for what. He didn’t need to.

‘Which pub is most likely?’ he said.

‘Could be any.’ The boy sniffed. ‘You’ll have to try them all.’

‘OK,’ Martin said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is she OK?’ the girl asked.

For a moment, Martin didn’t reply. ‘I hope so,’ he said, eventually. ‘I hope so.’

In the car he checked his phone. There were no missed calls, no text messages from Sandra announcing Maggie’s’ return.

It was 23.34. Nearly midnight.

He’d had enough. The best case was she was outside a pub or waiting for a taxi or with some older boyfriend. The worst case was unthinkable.

It was time to call the police.

Twelve Years Earlier, 7 July 2006: Evening

1

Maggie sat on the bed, legs crossed, arms folded, her fingers stroking the smooth skin of her forearm. The light next to the bed was switched on; she had turned it off but there was no other source of light in the room and the darkness was absolute. There was sweat on her back and forehead; although it was not warm in the room she had, for what felt like an age, screamed and shouted and thrown herself against the door in a desperate – and useless – attempt to find a way out.

She was calmer now, but the panic was there, just under the surface.

Because she knew now there was no way out of the room.

There was no way out of the room.

There was no way out of the room.

And there was no one answering her cries. Was that his plan? To starve her to death in here? No – it couldn’t be. There had to be more to it than that.

The man who looked like a geography teacher – she didn’t know why she chose geography, it could have been one of many subjects, but that was the one that had come to her – had done this for a reason. He’d gone to too much effort for it to be otherwise.

Now she was calmer, the room was silent. It was a kind of silence she had never experienced before. At home, even in the dead of night, there were sounds: plumbing gurgling, floorboards creaking, cars passing by.

But in here: nothing. It felt heavy and dead.

Total, deafening silence.

The smell of vomit.