‘My watch,’ Flora said, putting the box of flapjacks down. ‘I remember leaving it in here the weekend before last, because it kept catching on the book I was reading. I haven’t seen it since. And it’s the only thing missing.’

‘Is this watch rose gold with light pink leather straps, metal flowers on one side?’ Pip asked, and immediately Charlie and Flora’s eyes snapped to each other in alarm.

‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. It wasn’t that expensive, but Charlie bought it for our first Christmas together. How did you . . .’

‘I’ve seen your watch,’ Pip said. ‘It’s in Jamie Reynolds’ bedroom.’

‘O-oh,’ Charlie stuttered.

‘I can make sure it’s returned to you, right away.’

‘That would be great, but no rush,’ Flora smiled kindly. ‘I know you must be very busy.’

‘But the strange thing is –’ Charlie crossed the room, past a watchful Ravi, over to the window Jamie had climbed through just a week ago – ‘why did he take only the watch? It’s clearly not expensive. And I leave my wallet in this room, with cash in. There’s my computer equipment too, none of that is cheap. Why did Jamie ignore all the rest of that? Why just a watch that’s almost worthless? In and out in forty seconds and just the watch?’

‘I don’t know, that is strange,’ Pip said. ‘I can’t explain it. I’m so sorry, this . . .’ she cleared her throat, ‘this isn’t the Jamie I know.’

Charlie’s eyes fell to the bottom ledge of the window, where Jamie’s fingers had snuck through. ‘Some people are pretty good at hiding who they really are.’

Pip:

There’s one inescapable thing that haunts me in this case, something I didn’t have to face last time. And that’s time itself. As it passes, every minute and every hour, the chances of Jamie returning home safe and well get slimmer and slimmer. That’s what the statistics say. By the time I’ve uploaded this episode and you’re listening to it, we will have passed another important deadline: the seventy-two-hour mark from when Jamie was last seen. In normal police procedure, while investigating a high-risk missing persons case, the seventy-two-hour mark is a line in the sand, after which they quietly accept that they might not be looking for a person any more, but a body. Time is in charge here, not me, and that’s terrifying.

But I have to believe Jamie is OK, that we still have time to find him. Probability is just that: probable. Nothing is certain. And I’m closer than I was yesterday, finding the dots and connecting them. I think everything is linked. And if that’s true, then it all comes back to one person: Layla Mead. A person who doesn’t really exist.

Join us next time.

TUESDAY

4 DAYS MISSING

Twenty

Jamie Reynolds is clearly dead.

The words jumped in and out of focus as Connor held the phone in front of her eyes.

‘Look,’ he said, his voice quivering, maybe with the effort of keeping up with her down this corridor, maybe with something else.

‘I have,’ Pip said, slowing to divert around a group of chittering year sevens. ‘What was the one very important rule I gave you, Con?’ She looked over at him. ‘Never read the comments. Ever. OK?’

‘I know,’ he said, going back to his phone. ‘But that’s a reply to your tweet with the episode link, and it’s already got one hundred and nine likes. Does that mean one hundred and nine people really think my brother’s dead?’

‘Connor –’

‘And there’s this one, from Reddit,’ he carried on, not listening to her. ‘This person thinks that Jamie must have taken the knife from our house on Friday evening, to defend himself, therefore he must have known someone would try to attack him.’

‘Connor.’

‘What?’ he said defensively. ‘You read the comments.’

‘Yes, I do. In case there are any tips, or someone has spotted something I missed. But I know that the vast majority are unhelpful and that the internet is full of morons,’ she said, skipping up the first set of stairs. ‘Did you see Jamie carrying a dirty great knife around at the memorial? Or in any of the photos from the calamity? No. Because he couldn’t have, he was wearing just a shirt and jeans. Not many places to hide a six-inch blade.’

‘You get quite a few trolls, huh?’ Connor followed her as she pushed through the double doors on to the history floor. ‘I killed Jamie and I’ll kill you too, Pip.’

A student in the year below was just passing when he said that. She gasped, mouth open in shock, hurrying away from them in the other direction.

‘I was just reading something out,’ Connor called to explain, giving up as the girl disappeared through the opposite doors.

‘Right.’ Pip stopped outside Mr Clark’s classroom, looking through the glass in the door. He was there, sitting at his desk even though it was break time. She guessed he was new enough that an empty classroom was still more welcoming than the staff room. ‘Come with me, but if I give you the eyes, that means you need to leave. Got it?’

‘Yes, I get it now,’ Connor said.

Pip opened the door and gave Mr Clark a small wave.

He stood up. ‘Hello Pip, Connor,’ he said brightly, fidgeting like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. One went to his wavy brown hair, the other settling in his pocket. ‘What can I do for you both? Is this about the exam?’

‘Um, it’s actually about something else.’ Pip leaned against one of the tables at the front of the classroom, resting the weight of her rucksack.

‘What is it?’ Mr Clark said, his face changing, features rearranging beneath his heavy brows.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Connor’s brother, Jamie, went missing last Friday and I’m looking into his disappearance. He was an ex-pupil here.’

‘Yes, yes I saw that in the town newspaper yesterday,’ Mr Clark said. ‘I’m very sorry, Connor, that must be very hard for you and your family. I’m sure the school counsellor would –’

‘So,’ Pip cut him off; there were only fifteen minutes left of break, and time wasn’t something she had to spare. ‘We’re investigating Jamie’s disappearance and we’ve traced a lead to a particular individual. And, well, we think you might know this individual. Might be able to give us some information on her.’

‘Well, I . . . I don’t know if I’m allowed . . .’ he spluttered.

‘Layla Mead.’ Pip said the name, watching Mr Clark’s face for a reaction. And he gave her one, though he tried to wrestle with it, shake it off. But he hadn’t been able to hide that flash of panic in his eyes. ‘So you do know her?’

‘No.’ He fiddled with his collar like it was suddenly too small for him. ‘Sorry, I’ve never heard that name before.’

So, he wanted to play it that way, did he?

‘Oh, OK,’ Pip said, ‘my mistake.’ She stood up, heading towards the door. Behind her, she heard Mr Clark breathe a sigh of relief. That’s when she stopped, turned back. ‘It’s just,’ she said, scratching her head like she was confused, ‘it’s strange, then.’