Kathy’s hand grips mine tightly as we sit in the back of the police car. The police have already checked the surrounding area but we still stare out of our respective windows, desperate for a sight of Harry. There are so many boys with dark brown hair and each time I spot one I feel a shard of hope that shatters into tiny pieces when I realise it’s not him. Kathy hasn’t shouted or screamed or done any of the things I’d probably do in her position but I know even if she were to fly at me, fists pummelling, punching out her rage, I couldn’t feel any worse than I do right now. When the police asked if we’d heard anything, me and Rachel had exchanged a look, both remembering the way I’d stood in the courtyard, thinking I’d heard the bell on the door, but I’d sat down again and we’d eaten chocolate. The caramel and guilt rose in my stomach and I felt like I was going to vomit.

We’re on our way back to Kathy’s now. Her house has already been checked and we know Harry isn’t there but it’s early days we’re told and statistically it’s likely he’ll just turn up. Children go missing all the time apparently but they’re not Harry, are they? With his floppy brown fringe and infectious smile. It doesn’t make sense he’d have wandered off. He never has before.

* * *

At Kathy’s, a policewoman asks the same questions I’ve already answered.

There was nothing unusual in Harry’s behaviour. He gave no indication he was thinking of running away. We’d talked about the animals. About school. About Harry wanting to work for the Dogs Trust and rescue stray animals in a yellow van like in the adverts.

‘And you didn’t notice anyone suspicious outside the building at all?’ The policewoman holds a mug of steaming coffee in front of me but when I stretch out my hand to take it I’m trembling so much she sets it on the table instead.

I hesitate before I answer this one. I’m not sure how to explain the sense of being followed. Being watched. I’ve nothing concrete to tell her, and anyway Vanessa thinks it’s all in my head. Besides, even if it isn’t, it can’t be connected to Harry going missing, can it? And I didn’t actually see anyone this morning.

‘No.’

‘And there was nothing else?’ The way she studies me is almost like she knows I’m holding something back.

‘Well.’ I look at Kathy’s white face. Her red-rimmed eyes. I don’t want to upset her even more and yet there was one more thing we talked about, and I know this might be important. ‘Harry mentioned his dad. He really wanted to meet him and was wondering if he might have a pet dog.’

A sob escapes Kathy and she clenches her hands into fists. ‘Harry’s always asking for a dog. If he comes back, he can have anything he wants. Anything.’

I shuffle closer to her and put my hands around her shoulders. She shrugs me off.

‘And Harry’s dad. Is he in the picture?’

Kathy shakes her head. ‘Owen? He’s a waste of space. He’s never had anything to do with Harry.’

‘Do you have contact details for him. A phone number? Address?’

Kathy wipes her nose and unlocks her phone. She scrolls through her contacts and relays his number. ‘He hasn’t been answering any of my calls. He stopped paying maintenance months ago.’

A flash of cherry red passes the window and rumbles into the driveway. Brakes squeak. Sam. I hold my breath as the front door bangs open and the thud of familiar footsteps pound the hallway. He’s framed in the doorway, taking in the police, before he rushes to kneel in front of Kathy and he wraps his arms around her. ‘It’s OK, Mum. We’ll find him.’

‘They’re asking about Owen. But he wouldn’t have taken him, would he? He doesn’t want anything to do with Harry. But what if he’s fed up with paying for him every month? Oh God.’ She rocks back and forth. ‘He wouldn’t hurt him, would he, Sam?’

‘Of course not.’ Sam twists his head and addresses the policewoman. ‘What can I do?’

‘Do you have a recent photo of Harry?’

Sam pulls out his phone and swipes through his photos. Over his shoulder I see pictures of Harry at the farm feeding goats; Harry in the garden playing with the hosepipe; Harry tearing wrapping paper from a large square box. His face shines with happiness from each one.

Sam settles on a recent shot of Harry at school: he’s staring directly into the camera, beaming. Front tooth missing. Sam passes his phone over.

‘And his dad? Owen, was it?’ the policewoman asks.

Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t have a photo of him. Mum?’

Kathy wipes her cheeks with her sleeve. ‘There’s one in Harry’s baby book in the bottom drawer taken at the hospital. It was the only time Owen ever met Harry.’

Sam pulls out a book and swipes through the pages. ‘Here.’ He points at a picture of Kathy: exhausted smile, dark circles under eyes, cradling Harry while a dark-haired man stands to the side of her bed looking down at his son.

As I stare at Owen’s face my chest burns as though the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Rain. Darkness. Blood. Images flash through my mind. It’s as if I’m thundering through a tunnel on a train catching glimpses of posters I can’t quite identify. Owen’s face is so familiar. I know I’ve never met him but it’s as if a bottle of champagne has been uncorked and fragmented memories froth and spill, and none of them are good. The fear builds and builds. A sense of helplessness. A thin film of sweat covers my body. What’s happening to me? I press my hands against my ears trying to block out the muttering in my head.