The policewoman was restless. She strode round the sitting room as I talked and looked things over, her eyes making professional judgements, of the windows, of the house, of me. Her radio kept spitting static and I strained to hear if there was news.

From the kitchen, the light slap of cupboard doors. The kettle rattled on its stand and boiled in a rush of steam. A few moments later, the young Asian officer came through with a cup of strong, sugary tea and set it in front of me. He gave me a meek smile.

‘Forced entry?’ The policewoman lifted back the curtain and studied the gaping sash. ‘No locks?’

I shook my head. Time had stopped. I was hoarse. Dizzy. They kept asking meaningless questions. Exactly how much had I had to drink last night? What exactly was my relationship with Matthew Aster? Was there anything else I could tell them about him? Anything at all, however trivial?

I could barely think. All I could say was: ‘Please. Hurry. Please find my daughter.’

My eyes were sore from crying. My arms ached with emptiness. He’d taken you. My beautiful daughter. I’d given them photographs of you. The portraits last term, taken by the photographer at nursery. They didn’t do you justice but they were clear. They’d reproduce well, the young man said and he was trying to be kind, I could see, but the senior shot him a look. I thought about posters with your face pinned to noticeboards, stuck on trees: Missing. It set me crying all over again.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel you against me. Your small, hard body on my knee, your face against my shoulder, your warm breath on my neck.

‘And this was, what time?’

I opened my eyes. Her words hung in the air.

‘What?’

She spoke more slowly.

‘At what time did he enter the property?’

I took a deep breath to stop myself from shouting at her. What did it matter?

‘I don’t know. Some time in the night. I came down at about seven and he was here, sitting right here.’

Scratch, scratch of the young officer’s stubby pencil.

‘Are you aware of any missing items?’

My voice trembled, hit a higher note. ‘Just her, my daughter. I keep telling you. Why don’t you find her?’

‘There’s no need to shout.’ She looked down at me without expression. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’

The young officer, glancing from her to me, said in a low voice: ‘I know you’re upset. But just try to answer the questions. OK?’

I shook my head, feeling tears rise again.

He set down his notebook for a moment, lifted the mug of tea from the table and put it into my hands.

The police officer’s radio squawked. She raised it with her thumb and forefinger, talked into her lapel.

She spoke across me to the young officer. ‘Not at the property.’

‘What property?’ I said.

She sat beside me, rested her hands on her thighs. ‘We sent a car to Mr Aster’s home. To the address you gave us. He isn’t present but officers are interviewing his mother.’

I thought of the dingy sitting room and of his mother, presiding over the teapot, dignified and endlessly polite. Of the officers, bristling with kit, perched on the old-fashioned suite, helping themselves from a plate of biscuits or of buttered scones.

‘So now what?’

‘We’ve already extended the search. Believe me, we’re doing all we can. We could have news any minute.’ She hesitated, her eyes on my face. ‘We’ve every reason to stay hopeful, at this stage.’

She and the young officer exchanged glances and drifted through to the hall together. Furtive whispering. Another blast of radio static and a short, sharp exchange on the walkie-talkie.

Something tightened in my chest. I tried to relax my shoulders, panicked now, and focused on breathing. In, out, in, out. Slowly, the pressure eased. My arms, my legs hung like weights. The room tipped, shivered, then righted itself. Your books stood in a row against the edge of the mantelpiece. The shiny purple cover of Beauty and the Beast stuck up above smaller books. The spine, weathered, curled up at the bottom.

When they came back in, the senior officer asked: ‘Is there anyone who could come over? Anyone we can call to sit with you?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

‘Any news at all, we’ll let you know. OK?’ She pointed to the windows. ‘I’ll send someone to fix those.’

As she left, the young man said gently: ‘They’re trying to get hold of the family support team. I can stay until someone comes, if you like?’

‘No.’ I got up. ‘I can’t just sit here. I want to look for her too.’

He looked worried. ‘Please don’t go far. In case we need to get hold of you.’ He hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision, gave me a final nod and turned to leave.

The front door opened and slammed shut. His heavy boots slapped down the path. The gate clanged as it closed.

I thought of the bed upstairs, its sheets still crumpled. The clock said ten past nine. Two hours ago, we both lay there, you and I, my body curled round you, keeping you safe from the world. Now you were gone.

I picked up my phone and dialled Matt’s number for the twentieth time, my fingers trembling. Again, it clicked onto voicemail and I left another frantic message.

‘Please, Matt. Bring her back. We can talk. But please don’t hurt her.’

I ran to get dressed, trying to think where Matt might take you and where you might run to hide if you managed to get away from him.