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Boris whined and strained at the lead, so she jogged with him along the path. The Lakeland terrier ran up to them and sniffed Boris, then its owner, a kind-looking ruddy-faced man in a Barbour, smiled apologetically at Amy. Then, in a flash of black and white, a cocker spaniel streaked over and joined in. Amy’s heart jumped. There was no sign of his owner. He was a nice dog, glossy and enthusiastic, smiling gleefully in the way that spaniels did. He and the Lakeland ran in delighted circles for a few minutes, and Amy and the ruddy-faced man stood watching, like parents at the school gates.

‘Haven’t seen him before,’ said the man, nodding down at Boris. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Boris,’ Amy said. ‘No, we don’t live here – we’re just, um, visiting. So you know all the regulars, do you?’

‘You get to know their names, yes,’ the man said, turning his foot over to rub a small clod of mud off the side of his shoe. He sounded extraordinarily posh. ‘That’s Wiggins.’

Amy tried to contain her excitement.

‘Oh, and there’s his owner,’ said the man, pointing with a chubby finger towards the path. Amy followed his gaze.

The man on the path looked absolutely nothing like his photograph on CupidsWeb. Amy thought she’d never have recognized him had it not been for the help of the ruddy-faced man. Ross’s profile had said he was five foot eleven, but this man was no more than five foot eight. His web presence – photos on both his own website and CupidsWeb – had depicted him looking healthy, clean-shaven and well coiffed, but the person walking towards her now was anything but. He was a physical wreck – greyish stubble, bowed shoulders flecked with dandruff, vast puffy bags under his eyes.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Ruddy-Faced Man called out to him, and he nodded back. ‘Right, must get on with it. Come here, Jimi! After Jimi Hendrix,’ he explained to Amy as the terrier bounded over. ‘Nice to have met you.’ He smiled over his shoulder as he headed towards the park gates.

Ross ignored Amy, even though they were only standing a few feet apart. Blimey, she thought, he doesn’t look as if he could motivate anyone. She wandered as casually as she could up to him, grateful to the ruddy-faced man for having effected an introduction

‘So, Wiggins is yours, is he? That man over there just told me his name. He’s lovely. Have you had him long?’

Ross met her gaze, and for the first time she recognized him from his photos. ‘Two years,’ he said, appearing slightly more animated. ‘What’s yours called?’ He reached down and gave Boris a half-hearted pat.

‘This is Boris. He’s a rescue dog – been with me for four years now.’ She pretended to do a double-take. ‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sure I know you from somewhere!’

Ross pushed back his shoulders and looked pleased. ‘Have you been to one of my talks?’

Amy pretended to consider. ‘I don’t think it’s that … Forgive me if I’m wrong, but are you by any chance on CupidsWeb?’

Ross blinked at her. ‘Er, yes, I am, actually.’

Amy clicked her fingers. ‘That’s it! So am I. I remember now – I was looking at your profile yesterday. You’re a writer, aren’t you? What a weird coincidence! I don’t even live around here, I was just staying with an old schoolfriend last night who lives up the road.’ The words gushed out and she wondered if he could tell how nervous she felt – it sounded so implausible. She had to keep reminding herself that this man could have something to do with Becky’s disappearance. He might be dangerous.

Ross looked properly at her and held out his hand for Amy to shake.

‘I’m Amy,’ she said, taking his hand.

‘Ross. Very nice to meet you, Amy, and yes – what a coincidence. I’m not a writer as such, although I’ve written a book on self-help techniques. I’m a motivational speaker.’

‘Oh, yes, that was it, sorry. I remembered something about a book.’ She lowered her eyelashes and pretended to look coy. Her heart pounded and she felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach. She was aware that if how she felt was visible, Ross would mistake her nervousness for desire.

‘I added you into my Favourites, actually.’

‘Did you now?’ he said, putting his head to one side and regarding her flirtatiously. It was incredible how different he looked to the miserable-looking man who had shuffled into the park not five minutes earlier.

He looked at his watch, pushing his arm forward in an exaggerated manner. As his sleeve shot up, Amy caught a glimpse of what looked like either a hospital bracelet or a festival wrist pass. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a coffee, have you? Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say?’

He grinned hopefully at her, and Amy smiled back.

‘I could murder a latte,’ she said, and he gestured towards the little café behind them.

‘Let’s go!’ He whistled to Wiggins and they set off together, Amy marvelling at how easy it had been. Now all she had to do was work out what to say to Ross to find out what, if anything, he knew about Becky’s vanishing act.

Ross hooked Wiggins’s lead over the fence outside the little café, picking up an empty stainless-steel dog bowl on the ground by the gate. ‘Can we sit out here so I can smoke?’ he asked. ‘I’ll go and get the hounds a drink. Latte for you?’

Amy nodded, and sat down at the picnic table inside the little picket fence. Boris sat next to her, regarding Wiggins with curiosity. She took out her phone again and checked Twitter. Four new retweets of her appeal – that was good. Then something caught her eye, in her Mentions folder: BColtman …

Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. A tweet from Becky! All it said was:

@Amyjo stop looking for me. I’m in Thailand. I’m fine.

Amy felt as though she had been winded, all the breath left her lungs in a weird squeeze of suction. So Becky really was in Asia? But even after an argument, surely she’d never write something as cold as that, knowing from the appeal how worried Amy had been.

She typed a reply immediately, as a direct message:
WTF? Why didn’t you tell me?
She paused, thinking that it sounded a little aggressive, then sent another message:
I love you. Been so worried.

As she hit Send, Ross emerged carrying a tray containing two coffees and a bowl of water, which he put down for the dogs. He handed Amy her latte and, as she took it, he saw her face. ‘Hey, are you OK?’

He climbed over the fixed seat of the bench and sat opposite her, pulling out a pack of Silk Cut. ‘Want one?’

‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke,’ she said. Her hands were suddenly shaking so much that she could hardly pick up the cardboard cup.

‘Has something just happened?’ Ross looked concerned, but slightly wary, as if the last thing he needed was to listen to a strange woman’s troubles.

Amy hesitated, then decided. She would just have to go for it – not least because she did not believe herself to be nearly a good enough actress to be able to pull off a convincing flirting act.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been straight with you. I did see you on CupidsWeb, but I came here today to try to find you, after you put on your blog that you walk Wiggins here every afternoon. I need to talk to you.’

Alarm was printed all over his face, almost comically. Amy wondered what he’d do if she leaned forward and said, ‘You’re going to be a daddy!’ just to freak him out, but she was in no mood for levity. The expression he didn’t wear, though, was guilt, or any sort of fear.

‘My sister’s gone missing,’ she blurted. ‘And I think you went on a date with her recently. Becky. Becky Coltman. Do you remember her?’

He raised his eyebrows and, if anything, seemed relieved. ‘God. Sorry to hear that. How awful. A teacher? Yes, I remember her. Lovely girl. I really liked her and wanted to see her again, but she emailed me afterwards and said she only wanted to be friends, that she didn’t think there was any chemistry between us. I left it at that – I’ve got enough girls who are mates, I’m after a girlfriend.’ He looked momentarily sad, and Amy felt sorry for him. ‘How long has she been missing for?’

‘She was last seen on Wednesday. Then on Sunday, I had this weird email from her saying she was going away. Did she mention going travelling to you?’

Ross thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘Definitely not. I specifically remember asking her if she had any plans for the summer holidays, and she said, no, that she was skint and had already had a holiday this year – let me think … yeah, hadn’t she been to Spain, or Portugal or somewhere at Easter?’

Amy had forgotten that, because she herself had been away then, at a big craft expo in Manchester. Becky had gone on a week’s tennis holiday in Portugal in April. There was no way she could afford another holiday this year.

‘You need to go to the police,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette beneath his shoe.

Amy looked at him. He certainly seemed utterly transparent, and genuinely concerned – but some people were expert liars, weren’t they? ‘Can I ask you a question? What’s that on your wrist?’ She pointed at his sleeve, and he blushed slightly.

‘Couldn’t find any scissors at home,’ he said, showing her that it was a hospital wristband. ‘I just got out of hospital last night. I was in for three nights. Kidney stones. Awful. That’s why I look so shit, in case you were wondering. It really took it out of me.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Amy said. ‘Which hospital were you in?’

‘West Mid— Hey, are you going to check up on my alibi?’ He sounded offended, but Amy smiled wryly. ‘The police will want to know, if I can ever get them to take this seriously.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, it’s certainly a solid alibi.’

‘It sure is,’ said Amy. She paused, then added, ‘I’m glad it couldn’t have been anything to do with you.’ It was her turn to blush, hoping he wasn’t going to ask her out. He was a really nice guy, but, like Becky, she didn’t fancy him at all.

‘Look at this,’ she said, getting out her phone again. ‘You asked if something had just happened, and it has – I’ve just had a tweet from her account. I sent out an appeal last night, asking if anyone had seen her, and she – or someone – has replied from her account. But I still don’t believe it’s her. I’ll show you.’

She scrolled through the icons to TweetDeck, and opened it on the same column the first tweet had arrived in.

The tweet had been deleted.

After saying goodbye to Ross, Amy walked back along the path with Boris, deep in thought and barely concentrating on where she was going. She walked with her phone in her hand, gazing at the screen, obsessively refreshing Twitter every few seconds to see if the phantom tweet would return. It didn’t.

‘Mind where you’re going!’

She had been so focused on her phone that she had almost bumped into a jogger.

She looked around her. Absent-mindedly, she had wandered into a quiet area of the park, where the trees were dense and there were few people around. No other people, in fact, except the jogger who was now retreating into the distance.

‘Where the hell are we?’ she said aloud.

As she turned around, to retrace her footsteps, she saw and heard something move in the trees, about twenty feet away. The foliage was so thick that she couldn’t see through it. But the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. If it hadn’t been for everything else that was going on, she might not have thought anything of it, but now she was convinced she was being watched.

‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Is someone there?’

Silence.

She took a step towards where the sound had come from – and a pine cone fell from a branch and landed at her feet, making her jump and catch her breath. She laughed to herself and was about to make a comment to Boris about how she was being stupidly paranoid, when she heard a phone chirrup – from the spot where she had heard the noise. There
was
someone there.

‘Who is that?’ she called.

At her feet, Boris growled.

She stooped and picked up the largest stick she could find, and ventured into the trees, the dog straining against his leash, his lip curled, baring his teeth.

‘I’ve got a dog,’ she said. ‘He bites.’

She reached the point where she was certain the noise had come from. There was no one there – just trampled grass on the path that led back into the heart of the park.

A body.

They had found a body, smack bang in the middle of nowhere. Detective Inspector Declan Adams leaned forward in his car seat, shifting his hips, unable to sit still. His lower back, which had seemingly got fed up with his shoulder getting all the attention, ached like hell. Ever since ‘the incident’, his body had developed a pain zone that roamed around his body like one of those wandering wombs from ancient medicine.

‘This sat nav is shit.’

He turned his head to look at the man who had spoken, DS Bob Clewley, who was looking at the TomTom rather than the road.

‘I know we’re in the countryside, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any other cars on the road, Bob.’

‘Hmm? Oh, but this thing is crap. How do you turn the fucking volume down?’

Calmly, Declan pressed a few buttons on the sat nav and the – admittedly irritating – voice of the navigator fell from a bellow to a murmur.

‘Better?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Bob was five years younger than Declan, just starting to lose his hair, a fact that made Declan feel blessed, as his black hair was as thick as it had been when he was a teenager, back in the days when he used to backcomb his hair in an attempt to look like Robert Smith from the Cure. Declan knew that if any of his colleagues ever got hold of any photos from his Goth days, he would never hear the end of it. He still loved listening to his old Cure records, though. That and the Sisters of Mercy and the Fields of the Nephilim. Those were the bloody days.

‘What’s got into you this afternoon?’ he asked Bob, who was in a right mood.

Bob rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered.’

‘Freddie still keeping you up?’ Freddie was the sergeant’s one-year-old son.

He sighed. ‘Freddie. Jessica, the world’s only four-year-old Nazi. The dog. The bloody cat.’

‘Everyone but Isobel, eh?’