‘Well, he certainly wasn’t rushing to help me,’ she says.
‘D’you mind if I ask … ?’
‘No. Sure. I’ve lost my daughter.’
‘What, here? I didn’t see you … ’
‘No, no,’ she says, ‘back home. She ran away. Well, left, and I’ve not seen hide nor hair for nearly a year.’
‘And you’re looking here because … ?’
‘A message she sent some friends on an app,’ she says. ‘She said she was coming here for a party.’
‘Ah,’ he says.
‘Of course, Herbert didn’t seem to think so,’ she says.
‘Ah, no, he wouldn’t,’ says Laurence. ‘He’s rather limited by his raging snobbery, that one. Where’s she staying, do you know?’
‘If I knew that, I’d have gone there, wouldn’t I?’
‘Yes, sorry. Stupid.’
‘Anyway. Doesn’t look like there’ll be any help forthcoming from Her Majesty’s Civil Service,’ she says bitterly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘D’you have a picture?’
‘Oh, sure,’ she says. Digs out a flyer and hands it over.
He’s the first person she’s given it to who’s actually looked properly. ‘Gemma Hanson,’ he says. ‘How old?’
She tears up again. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I’ll certainly keep an eye out.’