Page 111 of Stolen

He doesn’t recognise the photo of Ellie, and neither do the two women.

‘You should ask Louise,’ one of them says. ‘She knows everyone. She’s swimming now, but she’ll be back soon to close up.’

I cast a glance at the pewter sea. The woman laughs. ‘She swims in all weathers. Part seal, if you ask me.’

The quiche is surprisingly good and I wolf it down. By the time I finish, it’s dark outside. I can’t imagine swimming in this weather. I hope Louise turns up soon. I’ve got a long drive back to London.

The bell over the door rings as a woman comes in with her dog. The surfer kid crouches down beside the animal, a beautiful Irish setter, roughhousing with him for a few moments, to the dog’s obvious delight.

The woman holds the door open, letting in an icy draft. She’s clearly another customer, not the Amazonian swimmer Louise; her hair is dry and she’s not alone.

‘Come on, Flora!’ she calls to the child behind her. ‘Stop dawdling. We can get you another Squishmallow.’

‘I want Henry! We have to find him!’

A little girl of about six erupts into the café. She’s wearing an old-fashioned purple bobble hat, the kind a grandma might knit you for Christmas. I can’t see her hair, but I don’t need to.

She stops dead when she sees me.

‘Mummy?’ she says.

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