Olivia is pacing the living room when I get home. As I enter, she thrusts her phone into my hand with an imploring, ‘Look!’

She’s showing me the Find Tyler Facebook page but the font is too small for me to make out much.

When I tell her this, she jabs the screen. ‘The picture!’

I squint at a grainy image that looks like one of the dodgy CCTV images police put out all the time. It’s been zoomed to such a degree that most of the definition has gone.

‘It’s Tyler,’ she says.

I twist the phone to view the image diagonally. It is definitely a person. Whoever it is has longish, shaggy hair and is wearing dark clothes. He might have a goatee – but it could be a scarf. I’m not even sure it’s a ‘he’. The goatee might be a shadow.

‘It’s from an hour ago,’ Olivia says. ‘Someone uploaded it onto the Find Tyler page. He’s in Bashington.’

I move the phone further away and then closer, trying to see what Olivia’s seeing.

‘Is this the only photo?’ I ask.

‘One’s enough. It’s him. The poster said they saw him at that statue thing in the town centre.’

I look at the name of the person who uploaded the photo – Sam Jones – but it means nothing to me. Olivia doesn’t know him or her, either. The profile photo is of a tree.

‘Can you drive me?’ Olivia asks. ‘We’ve gotta go now or he’ll be gone.’

‘It’s getting on for eleven.’

‘Exactly – that’s why we’ve got to go now. If he’s sleeping rough, he’ll be bedding down.’

‘What did your father say?’

Olivia is a bundle of frustrated energy. She tugs at her short hair and strides across the room and back again. ‘He has to be up early…’

That means he said no.

I tell her I’ll drive her to Bashington and know deep down exactly why. The photo could be of anyone and I’m not convinced we’ll find Tyler there, so it isn’t for that. Part of it is because I know Liv will worry all night otherwise. She might even try to make her own way there. The biggest reason is that Dan said no. I don’t know if he has been trying to make me doubt myself and I don’t know why he has a stun gun in his locker – but I do know this is me getting one over on him with our daughter.

It’s pathetic and childish. A game of brinksmanship – but that’s what we’ve come to, after all. Perhaps I am the baddie in all of this. For now, I don’t care. I grab my car keys and, moments later, we’re on the road.

The light from Olivia’s phone in the passenger seat is a constant in the corner of my eye as we follow the street lights out of North Melbury until we reach the darkened lanes on the outskirts of town. The stars are out tonight and the moon is so much brighter than when I was waking up in the field. There’s little fear of these roads with Olivia at my side.

‘Any other comments on the picture?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘Any updates? New photos?’

‘No.’

I want to tell her not to get her hopes up, that the blurry mess could be anyone, but there’s little point.

‘Did you try messaging Sam Jones?’ I ask.

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘I know, Liv. I’m only asking.’

‘Well I did – and they’ve not got back to me.’

‘Do you know a Sam Jones?’

‘No.’

I leave it there, more certain than before that this is a wild goose chase with no goose – and that we’re probably only one more question away from an argument that will undo any of the good work between us from the past couple of days.

It’s a silent drive the rest of the way, though Olivia’s phone screen never dims. Bashington is as unremarkable as North Melbury; both typical British towns that run on gossip, tea, summer fetes, suspicion of the young and, whisper it quietly, anyone who doesn’t look quite British enough. Most of the shops are closed after five o’clock and all day on Sundays. That’s why it’s no surprise that the town centre is empty when we arrive. Everyone’s always complaining about the lack of parking spaces – another telltale sign that people have little to do – but it’s no problem on this occasion. I park next to the obelisk in the square and switch off the engine.

‘Where do you want to start?’ I ask.

Olivia is out of the car and doesn’t reply. By the time I’m out and around her side, she’s already off along a lane that has darkened shops on both sides. She’s ducking to peer into the shadows and criss-crossing to the doorways in case any bodies are shadowed by the murk. I say nothing, pulling my coat tighter and following.

We’re almost at the end of the street when she makes a small squeak and darts into a covered archway. It’s only a moment until I catch up but, when I do, she’s crouching over a man in a sleeping bag who’s using a crammed bin bag for a pillow. Even before he rolls over, it’s obvious that it’s not Tyler. His hair is greyer and he’s a bag of bones. Olivia makes him jump by touching his arm. He growls at her, a startled wolf protecting cubs as she leaps away, apologising and saying she thought he was someone else. He eyes her – and then me – with understandable suspicion as he cradles his pillow filled with what are likely his only possessions. He shouts something along the lines of ‘get out of it’ – but the words are slurred and barely understandable. The sentiment is clear.

This time I don’t allow Olivia to walk ahead, gripping her wrist like she’s a child until she relents and remains by my side. We reach the end of one street and double around to follow the parallel one.

Olivia says nothing but she’s shivering. I offer my coat but she dismisses me with a rapid shake of the head.

There are two more homeless people on the next street but we continue with only a squint in their direction. It’s awful but what am I supposed to do? Drive them home to ours for the night?

Olivia’s pace starts to quicken as we arrive back at the car. A man is hurrying past, hands in pockets, likely on the way home from the pub – and she calls him over, showing him the photo on her phone and asking if he’s seen anything. He looks back and shakes his head before carrying on.

We try the main High Street and then a final row of shops near to the river – but there’s no sign of Tyler. It’s close to midnight and Olivia catches me checking my watch as we head back to the car.

‘It could be someone playing a trick,’ I say.

I half expect a fiery response, though it doesn’t come. Instead, Olivia replies with a solemn whisper: ‘I know.’

‘I saw the comment left on the page earlier.’

No reply.

‘How many have you been getting like that?’

Olivia takes my hand and squeezes her fingers into mine. I can’t remember the last time she did this. She rests her head momentarily on my shoulder as we continue to walk slowly.

‘A few,’ she says.

‘C’mon,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s get you home.’