Nick stood in the cellar. It was lit by a single bulb in a cage hanging from the beam. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, staring around. Work had begun, but it was far from finished. In fact, it was still just a cellar and he wouldn’t be happy keeping rats down here yet, let alone anything else. But he refused to allow the council or Trevor to scupper his plans. As things stood, he had no choice.

When he’d viewed the property months ago, it was the vaulted underground space that convinced him it was the property for him. It was mostly dry, spacious and had decent head height – a bonus in what was an otherwise run-down building, although he could see the restaurant had potential. The old Portuguese couple Nick had bought it from clearly didn’t anticipate the micro boom about to take place in the area and just wanted a quick sale. No one ate at the grubby place with its grease-stained woodchip paper and maroon-patterned carpet anyway, so Nick made a low offer and the transaction only took three weeks.

Prior to this, life at home had become intolerable. Jess had sunk to a place he didn’t recognise and he knew it was over between them. He’d never felt so alone. She needed help, professional help, but he didn’t know how to make her take it. She’d shut him out of her life completely; shut everything out except alcohol.

That was nearly twelve months ago. Meantime, Nick waited it out while the house they owned together was sold. They’d bought it years ago when Jess fell pregnant with Isobel. They could hardly contain their excitement, everything pointing towards a happy future. But when the house was put up for sale, they lived like strangers. Jess rarely came down from her room, but when she did, she padded about in her dressing gown and bare feet, harvesting leftovers from the fridge, sometimes standing in the garden, her face turned to the sky with a packet of Marlboro in her gown pocket, each cigarette consumed in almost one drag.

‘Jess, we need to talk,’ he’d said countless times when she shuffled past, her hair a tangled knot and her skin dull. ‘Please.’ He took her by the shoulders, tried to look into her eyes. She barely had the energy to shrug him off. Back upstairs she went.

‘You need help, Jess. Proper help.’ Nick sat outside her bedroom. He didn’t know what to do. Their daughter had died. Died in this house. Now it was as if Jess wanted them to die too.

‘It’s your fault she’s gone,’ she spat one time, whipping open the door. ‘You left her alone.’

Nick crumpled from the blow. They’d both agreed it was safe to leave Isobel for a couple of hours after school every afternoon. Other parents did it. The bus dropped her virtually at their front door and she would grab a quick snack before getting on with her homework. Not once did they imagine such a freak accident would occur; not once had Nick imagined that Jess was seeing another man. A married man with a couple of spare afternoons each week.

Nick paced around the cellar, trying to see a future transposed over the past. Basement, he thought, preferring to call it that. In his mind, cellars conjured images of damp and mould, spiders and dead rats, along with forgotten, corked bottles of wine and broken old furniture. Rather, this space would represent a second chance, a place to nurture what he’d lost. As he patted the wodge of cash in his inside pocket, he could already envisage things taking shape in the vaulted chambers. Above in the restaurant, no one would suspect his little secret down below, no one would know what he’d done, what he’d had to do in order to survive. That tragedy had forced his hand.

The drive back to Cornwall was a reflective one. Trevor had come for his cash and reassured Nick that he’d keep the council out of the loop. There would be no repercussions and he was committed to finishing the project on time. Nick glanced at the dashboard display as it lit up, immediately taking the call. He was doing eighty in the fast lane.

‘Claire?’ It was more a question than a greeting. His mouth went dry at the thought of what she might know. She’d always had a knack of reading his thoughts.

‘Are you coming back?’ she asked, sounding as though she’d been crying.

‘On my way now,’ he replied. ‘Is there news?’

‘I’m afraid not. The forensics team have finished and… well, it was weird. They found…’ She trailed off and Nick didn’t want to press her. ‘Maggie went down to the police station to view some CCTV footage of a girl who might be Rain. Someone thought they’d spotted her. We’re still waiting to hear.’ She cleared her throat. ‘How long will you be?’

‘Maybe another two, two and a half hours?’

‘OK,’ she said, but then the line broke up. When it came back, her words made him grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. ‘Please hurry, Nick.’

---

In the police station Maggie stared at the blank computer screen, waiting for the film to play. She gripped the sides of the chair, digging her nails into the plastic.

‘The images we have are very fleeting and the quality isn’t great.’ An officer she didn’t know tweaked some settings, finally clicking the play button to reveal a grainy Newquay street scene on the monitor. Maggie squinted, leaning in to get a better view of all the people going about their business. There was the usual contingent of regular shoppers along with groups of teenagers and families who were clearly on holiday. Cars queued in one direction only, obscuring some of the people.

‘Take a close look here.’ The officer pointed to a blonde girl as she came into view from the right-hand side of the screen. He slowed down the frame rate, but this only made her face harder to see. Maggie squinted. ‘Her arm is being held by the man beside her,’ the officer continued. ‘Do you recognise either of them? Take your time. I can play it as many times as you need.’

It was true, Maggie thought. The girl looked as though she was being frogmarched down the street against her will. She couldn’t decide which was worse – never seeing her daughter again or witnessing her being abducted by some monster. She leant closer to the screen, her heart pounding. It certainly looked like Rain – she was a slim, fair-haired, attractive, teenage girl, but then so were hundreds of other kids in Newquay. Her hair had fallen over her face a little and, normally, Rain would swish it back, constantly running her fingers through it. But this girl wasn’t doing that. Her face seemed taut and blank – perhaps because the man was holding on to her. But it was so difficult to see anything clearly with people and cars getting in the way.

‘Can you go back to the start, please?’ Maggie watched the footage again. She certainly didn’t recognise the man. He was large and looked in his late forties, his belly spilling over his jeans as they passed a gap between two cars.

‘Wait. Go back a bit. To when they were just here. Play it at normal speed.’ She pointed to the space between the cars. It was the only point at which the girl’s entire body came into view. Maggie drew in a breath sharply. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. ‘It’s not my daughter.’

‘Are you certain?’ The detective stopped the tape when the girl was in full view.

‘Look, here,’ Maggie said, pointing at her left ankle. ‘I know the image isn’t totally clear, but there’s no tattoo. Rain has one right there. It would show up even at this range.’ The detective nodded and made some notes. He asked her again if she was sure about what she’d seen.

‘I’ve never been more positive about anything in my life.’

---

Maggie was driven back to the farm, where she found Claire sitting outside alone with the remains of a cup of tea on a tray. Some biscuits lay untouched.

‘It wasn’t Rain.’

When she didn’t reply, Maggie sat down beside her in the empty wrought iron chair. ‘Claire?’ Streaks of watery black ran in wavy lines down her friend’s cheeks. ‘Oh, Claire…’ Maggie reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. It felt, for a fleeting moment, good to be the comforter rather than the comforted, even though she felt her friend tense up.

Claire turned slowly, looking at Maggie, her expression suggesting bad news. She held her breath. ‘I’m so sorry the CCTV didn’t show anything helpful.’ She shrugged away from Maggie’s hand. ‘I just need to go and freshen up. Excuse me,’ she said, hurrying back inside.

Maggie didn’t understand. Until now, Claire had been strong, a rock just like her mother, competent and helpful. She’d been exactly what Maggie had needed the last couple of days, helping her through this nightmare. What had changed?

She sat for what seemed like hours. Then, through the heat haze and her thoughts, the summer bugs darting through the air and the birdsong, Maggie became aware of a telephone ringing. Its trill was somehow lost in the expanse of Trevellin’s garden. Then she realised the landline handset was beside her on the table. She answered it.

‘Hello?’ A few moments later, she dropped it onto the grass, unable to move a muscle.