“She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last. “Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last year some time. I don’t remember when exactly.” He talked without looking at me, as though he were talking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I was there at all. “I was the one who suggested she talk to someone. I was the one who encouraged her to go, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.” His voice cracked a little then. “I couldn’t help her. And she told me that she’d had similar problems in the past and that eventually they’d go away, but I made her . . . I persuaded her to go to the doctor. That guy was recommended to her.” He gave a little cough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to be helping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sad laugh. “Now I know why.”

I reached out my hand to give him a pat on the arm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew away and got to his feet. “You should go,” he said brusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’t leave me alone for more than an hour or two.” At the door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of my arm.

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.

For a moment, I thought about saying, You might have done. You might have seen me at the police station, or here on the street. I was here on Saturday night. I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

I walked away towards the train station as quickly as I could. About halfway along the street, I turned to look back. He was still standing there in the doorway, watching me.

EVENING

I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’ve heard nothing from Tom. How much better life must have been for jealous drunks before emails and texts and mobile phones, before all this electronica and the traces it leaves.

There was almost nothing in the papers about Megan today. They’re moving on already, the front pages devoted to the political crisis in Turkey, the four-year-old girl mauled by dogs in Wigan, the England football team’s humiliating loss to Montenegro. Megan is being forgotten, and she’s only been gone a week.

Cathy invited me out to lunch. She was at a loose end because Damien has gone to visit his mother in Birmingham. She wasn’t invited. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years now, and she still hasn’t met his mother. We went to Giraffe on the High Street, a place I loathe. Seated in the centre of a room heaving with shrieking under-fives, Cathy quizzed me about what I’d been up to. She was curious about where I was last night.

“Have you met someone?” she asked me, her eyes alight with hope. It was quite touching, really.

I almost said yes, because it was the truth, but lying was easier. I told her I’d been to an AA meeting in Witney.

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed, dipping her eyes to her limp Greek salad. “I thought you’d maybe had a little slip. On Friday.”

“Yes. It won’t be plain sailing, Cathy,” I said, and I felt awful, because I think she really cares whether I get sober or not. “But I’m doing my best.”

“If you need me to, you know, go with you . . .”

“Not at this stage,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Well, maybe we could do something else together, like go to the gym?” she asked.

I laughed, but when I realized she was being serious I said I’d think about it.

She’s just left—Damien rang to say he was back from his mother’s, so she’s gone round to his place. I thought about saying something to her—Why do you go running to him whenever he calls? But I’m really not in a great position to give relationship advice—or any advice, come to that—and in any case I feel like a drink. (I’ve been thinking about it ever since we sat down in Giraffe and the spotty waiter asked if we’d like a glass of wine and Cathy said “No, thank you” very firmly.) So I wave her off and feel the little anticipatory tingle run over my skin and I push away the good thoughts (Don’t do this, you’re doing really well). I’m just putting my shoes on to go to the off-licence when my phone rings. Tom. It’ll be Tom. I grab the phone from my bag and look at the screen and my heart bangs like a drum.

“Hi.” There is silence, so I ask, “Is everything OK?”

After a little pause Scott says, “Yeah, fine. I’m OK. I just called to say thank you, for yesterday. For taking the time to let me know.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t need—”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No. It’s fine.” There is silence on the end of the line, so I say again, “It’s fine. Have you . . . has something happened? Did you speak to the police?

“The family liaison officer was here this afternoon,” he says. My heart rate quickens. “Detective Riley. I mentioned Kamal Abdic to her. Told her that he might be worth speaking to.”

“You said . . . you told her that you’d spoken to me?” My mouth is completely dry.

“No, I didn’t. I thought perhaps . . . I don’t know. I thought it would be better if I came up with the name myself. I said . . . it’s a lie, I know, but I said that I’d been racking my brains to think of anything significant, and that I thought it might be worth speaking to her therapist. I said that I’d had some concerns about their relationship in the past.”

I can breathe again. “What did she say?” I ask him.

“She said they had already spoken to him, but that they would do again. She asked me lots of questions about why I hadn’t mentioned him before. She’s . . . I don’t know. I don’t trust her. She’s supposed to be on my side, but all the time I feel like she’s snooping, like she’s trying to trip me up.”

I’m stupidly pleased that he doesn’t like her, either; another thing we have in common, another thread to bind us.

“I just wanted to say thank you, anyway. For coming forward. It was actually . . . it sounds odd, but it was good to talk to someone . . . someone I’m not close to. I felt as though I could think more rationally. After you left, I kept thinking about the first time Megan went to see him—Abdic—about the way she was when she came back. There was something about her, a lightness.” He exhales loudly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”

I have the same feeling I did yesterday—that he’s no longer really talking to me, he’s just talking. I’ve become a sounding board, and I’m glad of it. I’m glad to be of use to him.

“I’ve spent the whole day going through Megan’s things again,” he says. “I’ve already searched our room, the whole house, half a dozen times, looking for something, anything that would give me an indication as to where she could be. Something from him, perhaps. But there’s nothing. No emails, no letters, nothing. I thought about trying to contact him, but the practice is closed today and I can’t find a mobile number.”

“Is that a good idea, do you think?” I ask. “I mean, do you not think you should just leave him to the police?” I don’t want to say it out loud, but we must both be thinking it: he’s dangerous. Or at least, he could be dangerous.

“I don’t know, I just don’t know.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice that’s painful to hear, but I have no comfort to offer. I can hear his breathing on the other end of the line; it sounds short, quickened, as though he’s afraid. I want to ask him if he has someone there with him, but I can’t: it would sound wrong, forward.

“I saw your ex today,” he says, and I can feel the hairs on my arms stand up.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I went out for the papers and saw him in the street. He asked me if I was all right, whether there was any news.”

“Oh,” I repeat, because it’s all I can say, words won’t form. I don’t want him to speak to Tom. Tom knows that I don’t know Megan Hipwell. Tom knows that I was on Blenheim Road the night she disappeared.

“I didn’t mention you. I didn’t . . . you know. I wasn’t sure if I should have mentioned that I’d met you.”