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‘We’ve had a really good look through the footage from ten p.m. until four a.m.,’ the woman he was speaking to said, and Reid was positive that she was ex-police.

Something in the way she answered Reid’s questions.

She knew what she was doing. ‘There’s only one exit from the ball, but I checked the entrance, too, in case she managed to slip back out somehow.

She’d be quite distinctive in that dress, and with her height, but there’s no sign of her around the time you’re looking.

It gets harder from then on because a lot of people left as it started to get light and there was a big exodus after the survivors’ photo. ’

‘The…’

‘The photo of everyone who makes it to the end,’ the porter said. ‘It happened at six. So then there was a flood of people leaving after. I can have a proper look at them, or send it over.’

Reid knew it was just a name. That it didn’t mean anything. But somehow it still hit him like a punch to the stomach.

She wasn’t one of the survivors. She never made it to dawn.

‘I’d be grateful if you could do both,’ Reid said, mentally pulling himself together all over again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t take your name…’

‘Trish,’ she replied.

‘Thanks so much, Trish. I appreciate that this isn’t your job. It’s just that we’re early stage.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then added, ‘Guessing none of my junior colleagues has asked you for this in the interim? Don’t want to make you guys do it twice.’

‘No, you’re OK,’ Trish said. ‘And honestly, you’re all right. Just give me your email.’

Reid read it out as the train started to pull out of the station. He knew that if nobody else had asked for this it meant Cambridgeshire Constabulary had decided Anna wasn’t high risk. It was getting towards 7 p.m. now and they hadn’t even looked into the basics.

They’re going to leave her in danger , he thought with a feeling of anger.

‘Anything else you need?’ Trish asked.

‘That’s OK,’ Reid said, and then, with a sudden thought, he added, ‘I’m guessing there were no weird events last night? Nobody hurt?’

Trish gave a half-laugh. ‘Nope. The usual handful who drank too much, one of whom needed the St John’s Ambulance guys, but no fights.’ There was a pause, and she said, ‘Nothing like last year, thank god.’

Reid found himself breathing out slowly, knowing this was what he’d really been asking. He’d been horribly afraid that the reason they hadn’t found Anna on CCTV at the exit yet was that she’d drowned.

He hung up, thinking about what Trish had told him. James Sedgewick had told Seaton he’d seen her leaving at eleven, walking with someone he didn’t recognise. So why hadn’t she appeared on CCTV? Had they not actually walked to the exit?

If she hadn’t, why hadn’t anyone seen her after that?

He thought about all the things Cambridgeshire Constabulary could be doing right now that they weren’t. They could put an urgent authorisation through to the phone provider for the mobile she’d been carrying. The one she used for her Aria identity. They could track her location.

With a jolt, he remembered the phones in his pocket. He might not have the phone she’d been using, but he had her real one.

He pulled it out, and out tumbled another handful of memories with it. Memories of Anna laughing over a video. Anna saying, ‘Just a second.’ Anna frowning as she read with concentration.

This phone had so often been the focus of Anna’s attention as she thought of something to look up or as she read something out to him. Or equally when she lost herself in what she liked to call ‘side-quests’ but which were really just a series of distractions.

Seaton hadn’t known the code, but surely Reid should be able to work it out. He’d spent so much time with her. He’d understood her… or thought he had.

He sat holding the phone as the train moved out into open countryside. He watched occasional reflections play across it as he tried to get into her head. It was creeping towards evening now, the sun low and mellow.

He remembered catching sight of Anna punching her code in while she’d been curled up against him on his sofa. He’d asked with a laugh if she’d actually, genuinely, set her passcode to 1111.

‘I have not!’ she said. And then, after a pause, said, ‘It’s just not that far off. In an emergency, I want to be able to get into it quickly even if my face isn’t available.’

He’d shaken his head at her. ‘I don’t even know what that means.’

‘I might not be able to use face ID sometimes,’ she’d explained. ‘What if someone’s gagged me? Or what if I have a prosthetic on for a job? What if my hands are tied behind my back and I can only get the phone out but not see it?’

He’d found it impossible not to grin at her half-earnest, half-laughing reply. ‘So you think you could do it behind your back?’

‘Uhhhh, like, without question,’ she said. ‘I’ve practised it.’

And she’d sat up fully, leaned forwards with the phone behind her, and performed a few manoeuvres with her thumbs and one finger.

‘See?’ she asked, holding it up to him, triumphantly. ‘And look, I’ve even worked out how to get it out of my pocket if my hands are tied or cuffed behind me.’

She stuffed the phone into her jeans pocket and then repeated the manoeuvre with her hands crossed over as if tied. This time she twisted to tug the phone out with her fingers, turned it expertly and then unlocked it.

Reid remembered with a flush of warmth that he’d found the whole manoeuvre both impressive and a huge turn-on.

‘What if…’ he’d said, lifting the phone gently out of her hand. ‘What if your hands were tied over your head…’

He’d lifted them, crossing them back over until they were held above her.

‘Oh,’ she’d said with a flare of heat in her expression, ‘I see where this is going.’

‘It’s important research…’ he’d told her, releasing one hand to pull her closer in towards him.

He closed his eyes. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be thinking about. Not now.

Not ever.

But instead of feeling angry at himself he felt a strange sense of regret that he’d pushed all this away for so long.

God, I miss her.

It was such a simple thought, but it was one he’d been adamant he’d never let in.

It was almost as an afterthought that he realised he probably knew Anna’s code. That she wouldn’t have changed it. She still had the same battered phone in its bright, star-patterned case eighteen months on. She would have the same code, too.

He’d seen her thumb sweep up and down, and then up and down again.

He let go of the memory with a sigh and woke the phone up then typed in 4141.

It opened in a moment, and Reid suddenly, fiercely, felt like crying.

Find her , he told himself. Get it together and find her.

He started with her WhatsApps, that being her favourite method of communication.

But there was nothing there in recent days except a breezy chat with Imogen from the Ensign about a company’s tax returns.

It was clearly about the other job she should have been doing, and the messages had stopped the day before the ball.

Her iMessages were even less revealing. She’d barely sent any in weeks. Most of her incoming ones were automatic notifications from her GP, gas engineers, or the people who did her eyelash extensions.

He turned to her emails next, trying her inbox and sent folders, and was beginning to feel real disappointment when he thought to look in her drafts folder. He wasn’t even sure, afterwards, what made him look there.

But right at the top, right there, was an email addressed to him. An email she’d never sent.

It was titled Help , and it began

Hi Reid,

So if you’re reading this, it’s just possible you might be the only person who can save my life.