That evening, in a fairly classy restaurant in the streets of Nottingham, Jasper and Liv walked through the doors and addressed the maitre d’.

‘Table for three booked, name of Smith.’ Jasper informed him, who looked bored and unwilling to be there.

‘Certainly. This way,’ replied the maitre d’, who had a faint French accent. He led them through the crowded restaurant floor, weaving through the tables of consumers, to a table far in the corner, occupied by a solemn-looking figure in a black off-the-rack suit and combed hair.

Liv greeted him with a hug. Jasper sat down opposite him, and browsed the wine list, apparently uninterested in his companion.

‘Hello Liv,’ Gareth replied, ‘I’m okay…you?’

‘I’m fine’ she said, sympathetically. ‘This is Jasper, the friend I was telling you about’ she continued, gesturing at Jasper, moving around to an empty side of the table, and taking a seat.

‘Thank you for agreeing to help me, Jasper’ said Gareth. Jasper ignored him, and instead hailed a waiter. A man with tails and a waxed moustache came over.

‘A bottle of Bollinger ’99 please’ ordered Jasper.

‘At once, sir’ replied the moustached man, beginning his journey to the wine cabinet.

Jasper relaxed in his chair, and took a deep breath. Gareth was talking to Liv, and looking upset, about something, and Liv was comforting him as much as she could. Jasper looked around the place. It was a large room, with cream walls and cream curtains. The oak tables at which all the punters sat were covered in a gleaming white cloth which looked like something from a Daz advert, and the people themselves were all dressed in cream dresses, or black suits. Jasper leaned forwards.

‘So then, Gareth. Let’s get down to business shall we?’

‘Erm…okay. What do you want to know?’ he replied, disengaging from Liv and leaning in to match Jasper.

‘Everything you know.’ Jasper assumed a pose of what would have been, if he were a god-faring man, prayer, his hands together in front of his face, with his eyes closed.

‘Okay. Well, erm, it was last week, Friday, and I’d just got home from work, about seven. I shouted upstairs to Natasha, my daughter, and there wasn’t any reply. So, I went upstairs to see where she was. I looked into her bedroom, and see this note. It says “Goodbye dad, I’m sorry, don’t look for me.” Naturally, I’m distressed, and I called the police straight away. They told me they couldn’t do anything, ‘cos she’s sixteen and is “old enough to decide where she lives.” I just need to know she’s safe.’ Gareth sniffed, holding back tears.