I lift my hands, as though to cover my ears before he can say our daughter’s name, but he grabs my wrist and stares at it.

‘What is that?’

I look at the twisted plait of red-and-white. I’ve been so busy I forgot I was wearing the friendship bracelet I found earlier. I try to shrug him off but he tightens his grip.

‘Where did you get this from?’ he asks, his voice no longer hushed.

‘What is it to you?’

He lets go and takes a small step back before asking his next question.

‘When did you last see Rachel?’

‘Why? Am I a suspect again?’

He doesn’t answer and I dislike the way he is looking at me now even more than before.

‘I haven’t seen Rachel Hopkins since I left school,’ I tell him.

But it’s a lie. I saw her much more recently than that. I watched her get off a train less than twenty-four hours ago.

Him

Tuesday 14:30

I know that Anna is lying.

The drive back to the station is a blur, trying to piece together the parts of the puzzle that don’t fit. I still haven’t eaten anything today. The fingernails inside the Tic Tac box, along with the visit to the mortuary, have successfully put me off food for the foreseeable future. I’m already halfway through my packet of cigarettes, and while they help calm my nerves, they do nothing to ease my guilt.

I can’t stop thinking about the friendship bracelet on Anna’s wrist, the look on her face when I asked her about it, or the way she refused to explain where it had come from. It was exactly the same as the one tied around Rachel’s tongue.

Anna is lying about something, I can tell. But then so am I.

Her cameraman resurfaced before we had a proper chance to talk. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something a tad off about him, too. I don’t like the way he looks at her, not that I’ve got any right to feel that way anymore. It’s easy to recognise people with bad intentions when you know what it is like to be one.

My afternoon mostly consists of dealing with media enquiries and false leads, instead of being allowed to get on with my job. The press have been harassing almost every member of the team. It reminds me of being back in London, and the first time Anna shoved a microphone in my face. That’s how we met: she was covering a case that I was working on. It was hate at first sight but that changed. She didn’t remember me from her school days, but I always remembered her.

I work until late and feel mildly irritated, if not at all surprised, when Priya decides to stay too, even though I told her not to. When the rest of the team have left the office, she orders us a pizza. I listen to her on the phone as she chooses my favourite toppings and sides, wondering how she knows what they are. Whenever she looks in my direction I stare at my computer screen. The rest of the time, I watch her.

I notice that she has taken off her jacket, and appears to have undone the top three buttons of her shirt; her collarbone and a hint of her breasts are now visible. Not that I care. Her hair is down, released from what I thought was a permanent ponytail. She looks quite different like this. Less… irritating.

We eat in silence. Priya barely touches the pizza, and I can’t help thinking she only ordered it for me. She fetches us both a drink from the watercooler – without asking if I want one – then stands a little too close to my desk when she puts it down. I can smell her unfamiliar perfume as she rests her small hand on my shoulder.

‘Are you OK, Jack?’ she asks, dropping her usual ‘sir’ or ‘boss’.

If her body language means what I think it might then I’m flattered, but am not remotely interested in a junior colleague with daddy issues or whatever this is. Besides, all I can seem to think about right now is Anna, and how good our life together used to be before it got broken. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t particularly want to go home either, to face all the questions I know I won’t want to answer. But, as it is approaching midnight, I figure this is probably a good time to leave work.

‘I’m tired, you must be too,’ I say, standing rather awkwardly.

I never had much luck with the opposite sex as a boy or as a young man. It’s only in the last few years that women have begun to find me attractive. I’m middle-aged with grey hair and more baggage than Heathrow Airport; I don’t understand it. Although I do like the idea – who wouldn’t – when I think a woman is flirting with me, I still revert to being an awkward teenage version of myself. The one who doesn’t know how to talk to girls.

‘I’m going to head off. So should you. Separately,’ I add, to avoid any confusion.

Priya frowns. Her cheeks flush a little and she returns to her desk.

‘I’m going to stay a bit longer. Goodnight, sir,’ she says with a polite smile, while staring at her screen.

In trying to defuse the situation I fear I may have made it worse.

Sometimes I think people change their expressions just to give their faces something to do. A smile doesn’t mean someone is happy, just like tears don’t always mean someone is sad. Our faces lie just as often as our words do.

On the way home, I see that there is a light on in St Hilary’s. It’s the school that Rachel and Anna went to when they were teenagers. It was where they met. It’s late, nobody should be there at this time of night, but someone clearly is.

I drive into the car park, but decide to have another cigarette before going inside the school. Just half should sort me out, so I snap it in two. I flick my lighter a couple of times but it doesn’t work. I shake it and try once more, but it still refuses to ignite. I scan the various nooks and crannies in the car. I don’t really want to look in the glove compartment again; I haven’t forgotten what’s in there.

I find relief in the shape of an old matchbook inside the armrest instead. I light up and take a long drag, enjoying the instant head rush. Then I flip the matches over, and see that they are from the hotel where I first spent the night with Rachel. It was months ago now, but I still remember every detail: the smell of her hair, the look on her face, the shape of her neck. The way she took pleasure from pretending to be powerless, and letting me think I was in control. I wasn’t. There are two words written on the back of the matches: Call me. Along with her number.

The sight of her handwriting seems to push me over the edge I’ve been teetering on all day. I chain-smoke for a while, simultaneously longing for a drink. I don’t even care about whoever is in the school anymore. When I’ve smoked my third full-length cigarette in a row, right down to the butt, I look back up at the building and it is in complete darkness. Maybe I imagined seeing the lights on and the shadow of someone standing in the window.

The matchbook with Rachel’s handwriting scrawled across it catches my eye again. The idea of hearing her voice, one last time, brings a strange sense of comfort. So, I dial her number. I hear a phone start to ring, but it isn’t on the other end of the line, it’s in my car.

I turn so fast, I’m amazed I don’t get whiplash, but the back seat is completely empty. I get out, still holding the phone to my ear, and walk to the back of the 4x4. Then I stare down at the boot, where the ringing appears to be coming from.

I look around, but the school car park is unsurprisingly empty at this time of night, so I open the trunk. My eyes find the phone immediately. Its ghoulish glow in the dark illuminates two other unexpected objects. When I lean in a little closer, I can see that they are Rachel’s missing shoes: expensive designer heels caked in mud.