‘Yes.’

To start with I was dazed by your disappearance, but then my senses became overly acute; I saw too many details and too many colours, as if the world was animated by Pixar. Other senses were also on heightened alert; I heard the clank of the clock’s hand, a chair leg scraping on linoleum. I could smell a cigarette clinging to a jacket on the door. It was white noise turned up full volume, as if my brain could no longer tune out what didn’t matter. Everything mattered.

Mum had been taken off by a WPC for a cup of tea and I was alone with DS Finborough. His manner was courteous, old-fashioned even. He seemed more Oxbridge don than policeman. Outside the window I could see it was sleeting.

‘Is there any reason you can think of why your sister may have gone away?’ he asked.

‘No. None.’

‘Would she have told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You live in America?’

‘We phone and email each other all the time.’

‘So you’re close.’

‘Very.’

Of course we are close. Different yes, but close. The age gap has never meant distance between us.

‘When did you last speak to her?’ he asked.

‘Last Monday, I think. On Wednesday we went away to the mountains, just for a few days. I did try phoning her from a restaurant a few times but her landline was always engaged; she can chat to her friends for hours.’ I tried to feel irritated – after all, it’s me that pays your phone bill; trying to feel an old familiar emotion.

‘What about her mobile?’

‘She lost it about two months ago, or it was stolen. She’s very scatty like that.’ Again trying to feel irritated.

DS Finborough paused a moment, thinking of the right way to phrase it. His manner was considerate. ‘So you think her disappearance is not voluntary?’ he asked.