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A bus is just pulling away, and I ask an old lady with a shopping trolley: ‘Excuse me. Have you seen a woman and a little boy?’

‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Blond hair, both of them? Yes. They got on the last bus.’

‘Do you remember the number?’

She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t my one. I want the sixty-one. Do you know when it’s coming?’

‘No, sorry.’ I spot Sergeant Leach at the hospital entrance and wave him over. He jogs towards me.

‘This lady saw a woman and small boy catch a bus,’ I tell him.

Sergeant Leach takes off his cap, rubbing his damp hair. ‘Hello, madam – what can you tell me?’

‘Oh yes, officer. Well, there was a woman and a little boy. Both very fair-haired. Are they in trouble, officer?’

Sergeant Leach turns to me. ‘You may as well head home, Kate. We’ll get a search underway. I’ll call when we find them.’

If you find them.

Because Lizzie Kinnock is very good at staying hidden.

I head towards the car park, thoughts racing.

Where could they be going?

My phone rings and I see Tessa’s number flash up yet again.

Go away, Tessa.

As I rummage in my bag for my keys, lost in thought, I nearly walk in front of another vehicle – a large green camper van.

Beep! Beep!

Chest tight with shock, I hold up a hand, mouthing, ‘Sorry, sorry.’

The driver is a scruffy-looking man. Handsome, in a way. Nice white teeth. His forehead is knotted with stress, which I suppose is typical of anyone visiting a hospital. But he looks familiar.

I remember a black-and-white photocopy, bunged in among some court documents. A passport.

The driver … it’s Tom’s father.

Oliver Kinnock.

Lizzie

The electronic sign says:London King’s Cross – Delayed, exp 22.15. Seven minutes late.

Come on, come on.

I’ve bitten my last fingernail to the skin. My other hand grasps Tom’s fingers. ‘We’re getting a train, Tommo,’ I say, in my best, I’m-a-good-mother voice. ‘Won’t that be exciting?’

Beside us, an elderly couple smile, touched by this lovely relationship between mother and son.

And wedohave a lovely relationship.

Tom is part of me. My shadow.

A glass shard of panic tells me it’s ending. Somethingwashappening at school. One of those Neilson boys was pressuring Tom to bring in medicine.Ourmedicine. And worse – Tom is growing up. Learning to think for himself.