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The hairdresser snips and combs, as I admire myself in the mirror. For a woman of my age, I look very well. Everyone says so.

I’m furious with Elizabeth. What kind of daughter doesn’t answer the phone to her own mother? I’ve called so many times now and left messages.

‘My daughter can be very thoughtless,’ I tell the hairdresser. ‘It’s been an age since she was in touch.’ My voice reaches a higher pitch. ‘I could be ill or in pain.’

The hairdresser, a young Asian man called Fam, nods sympathetically. ‘Maybe she’s busy with the little boy, rushing around, didn’t see her phone.’

‘She has no excuse,’ I say. ‘Tom’s nearly nine years old. What rushing around does she have to do? It’s not as if he’s a toddler.’

Fam laughs. ‘My nephew is nine and is always jumping on the sofas. Can’t sit still. Little boys are a lot of work. Just crazy.’

‘Your nephew wouldn’t misbehave at Steelfield School,’ I say. ‘The headmaster has a very effective process for keeping problem children in line.’

‘Process?’

I hesitate. ‘He has a way with the children. That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Right,’ says Fam, fluffing my hair, not really understanding.

‘The problems with Elizabeth started when her father left,’ I say. ‘He never came to visit and she blamed me. And then he died and I think she blamed me for that too.’

‘Very sad, very sad,’ says Fam, snipping around my neck. ‘Shall we go a little shorter this time? You know? As we get older, short can be better.’

‘No,’ I snap. ‘I don’t want anything to change.’

‘Okay, okay,’ says Fam. ‘No problem.’

I think, reading his face, he has some issue with what I just said. But I can’t be sure.

In recent years, I’ve become aware that I don’t feel things like other people. It can be useful, I suppose. I only wish it still worked on Elizabeth. But these days, she’s slipping further and further out of reach.

Kate

3.24 p.m.

The roundabout glistens with cars, locked tight together, little metal boxes full of irritated mums and cooped-up kids. Usually I know better than to attempt this roundabout during the school run, but I’m on my way to the police station.

Lloyd Neilson is being held there, following an arrest at school. Aged eleven, he is now of legal age to be taken into police custody.

The police station is tantalisingly close – just across the verge of grass and wild flowers. I want to get out and run to it. But I can’t.

The traffic inches forward and a half-space opens up. I throw my usual caution to the wind and shoot into it. I’m rewarded with a torrent of angry beeps, but today I couldn’t care less. Social work is no profession for cautious drivers, I’ve discovered. Cautiousness takes time.

The traffic creeps around the roundabout.

Come on, come on.

I rarely check my watch at work any more because I’m always late.

There. Shooting forward into another space, I receive more angry beeps. I put up a sorry hand, and hope they understand that I’m on my way to help a frightened eleven-year-old boy who is being treated like an adult by police.

Finally, I can see the red-and-white striped barrier ahead – the one that should lift and let me into the police station car park.

My phone rings.Tessa Warwick. It’s never a good idea to ignore Tessa. She’s like a bull, easily enraged and prone to charge. Reluctantly, I pick up.

‘Kate. Where are you?’ she demands. ‘I’ve just had a call from Pauly Neilson. He and his brother are home on their own. Lloyd isn’t there to reach the cupboards. They need someone to make supper.’

‘The baby isn’t home too, surely?’