The thought filled her with relief, but it was an emotion that lasted barely seconds, because it relied on trusting Emma's kidnappers. What if they didn't release her? What if, God forbid, she was already dead? A spasm of sheer terror shot up her spine. If anything happened to Emma, she was finished. The thought of life without her was simply too much to bear.

Andrea reached into her handbag and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands. She took a long drag and tried Pat's number again, but there was still no answer. She left a second, curt message: 'Call me now. It's urgent.'

She leaned back against one of the kitchen's spotless worktops. This house had been Andrea's dream home when she bought it five years earlier for close to a million cash, which was most of the proceeds of the 40 per cent stake she'd sold to her current business partner. It had character, space, land, everything that had been missing in the tiny flat in which she'd grown up with her two sisters and mother. It was her and Emma's safe and private haven, where they could relax and spend time together. Yet tonight it felt alien, like a place she'd just stepped into for the very first time. Normally at this time there'd be noise: music playing in Emma's room; the tinny blare of the TV; the sounds of life. Tonight her home was dead, and she wondered whether it would ever feel the same again.

She went into the lounge and over to the drinks cabinet, avoiding turning on the lights. There were photos in here, of her and Emma – Emma as a toddler; her first day at school; at the beach. She didn't want to see them. Not now. She averted her eyes and poured herself a large brandy in the gloom, taking a big hit of it. It didn't make her feel any better, but at the moment nothing was going to.