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‘Don’t do anything stupid, mate.’ One of the men, short, fat and bald, hurries forward. ‘Calm down.’

‘Myson!’ Olly shouts, face contorted in pain and anger.

‘You’ll drown before you catch the boat,’ I say. ‘And then you’ll be no good to anyone.’

Olly sinks to the floor, sobbing and howling, one trainer in his hand.

‘Tom might not even be on that ferry,’ I say. ‘We don’t know for certain. Maybe the police found him. Tessa was going to search through the London records. Look at other options.’

Although it’s just as likely Tessa gave up and went to bed. Getting the London records at 11 p.m. … well, that’s tricky, if not impossible.

‘The police would have called you, wouldn’t they?’ says Olly. ‘If they’d found him.’

The last tiny bit of hope drains from my body. I’ve never known failure like this – total, overwhelming failure. I don’t want to do this job any more. When we get back to England, I’m handing in my notice. Tessa’s warnings were right. You can’t care too much in this job or it tears you apart.

I’m burned out and it’s time to go.

Lizzie

‘Are you okay, Tommo?’ I put an arm around my son, holding him close.

We’re on the ferry, watching the water spill and chug around us.

This is the sort of ferry I remember going on as a child. Stressful, awkward holidays to the Hebrides with Mum and Dad. It has a café selling Scottish toffee and shortbread and bad cups of tea, with a good view.

Neither Tom nor I slept on the overnight train. Tom lay on the seat with his eyes closed, but I could tell by his breathing that he was pretending.

When we arrived at the ferry port, I made a big fuss about buying Tom a croissant. It’s so easy to be the loving mother when I have an audience.

Tom didn’t eat the croissant and I ended up throwing it in the bin. ‘Never mind, darling. You’re probably travel-sick.’

Then I dragged Tom on foot over the passenger bridge and onto the ferry.

Now we’re on the deck watching the water.

‘I’m cold,’ says Tom, teeth chattering.

Water swells and churns as the ferry sways and there’s a fine mist in the air. It’s made Tom’s face damp, I think. Or maybe he’s crying.

‘It’ll be a fresh start, okay?’ I say. ‘We’ll be safer now. Maybe we can go without medication for a bit. Things might be different.’

Tom doesn’t reply – just stares.

‘I won’t let them take you away from me, Tom,’ I say. ‘I would kill myself first. Don’t you understand that? You’re my whole world.’

‘I want to stay,’ says Tom.

‘Hush now, Tom. It’s for the best. You can’t stay here – who would take care of you?’

‘Dad.’

‘He hurt you, Tom. You’re mine, not his. I won’t ever let you leave me. Not ever.’

Tom goes silent then, sensing in his childlike way that I’m wandering into a place there’s no way out of.

I look up, meaning to appreciate the clear sky, the gleaming white boat, our lucky escape. But instead, I see two police officers in yellow high-vis jackets.

I put on a forced, bright voice and look down at Tom. ‘Ready for an adventure, sweetheart?’