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Inside, everyone was camping it up to 'YMCA'. Julia's father dropped her off. Sam let herself into the quiet house, colourless in the blue moonlight. She carefully pressed the front door shut. Now the chain. Porch light off. The kitchen hummed with the sounds of night. The fridge buzzed and the hands of the clock clipped their way through the early hours. The cold tap, still not fixed, dripped and dripped and dripped, water bouncing with a metallic twang into the empty sink. Sam clattered around making herself a drink, dropping a tea-bag into her favourite mug, heaping in sugar, then drowning it in milk.

Only four girls out of thirty-five. Pretty good odds. Why should it be Anna? Then I was at the front of the queue. She had a nice voice, WPC Avery. Mr Whittaker? She ran her eyes down her list. She paused. I'm sorry, Mr Whittaker, your daughter . . No, I'm afraid there's no possibility of a mistake. Kind. Everybody was very kind. They drove me to the station. Tried to ring here, but the line was busy . . Here Tom faltered. His conscious mind wasn't working properly. It was going blank with the struggle of preventing the images from leaping out of his mouth.

A sob escaped from Helen's lips, buried against the blue of Tom's shoulder. He was still wearing his coat. Panic hit Sam in the chest, stealing her breath. 'Where's Anna? ' It was Tom who answered. 'Sam,' he said quietly. 'There's been an accident . ' Tom uttered the words as if they were in a foreign language. Meaningless, nothing words. Sam's head started to shake from side to side, denial crouching in her throat. 'There's been an accident,' he repeated. 'I'm . . She's dead, Sam. ' Sam heard the screaming.