"What?" Maggie reached for the phone, feeling the ground lurch beneath her feet. She knew the number as well as she knew her own, but for a few awful seconds she couldn't make her fingers work. At last she heard the ringing, on and on, then the voicemail cut in: "Hi, it's Gemma," came the light cheery voice. "I'm having much too good a time to answer, so leave a message and I'll ring you back. Bye."

"Gemma, it's Mum. Phone me." It was at least three years since Gemma had last addressed her as Mum, but she wasn't going to call herself Maggie to her own daughter.

She found the number of Gillie's house and rang it. Diana, Gillie's mother, answered almost at once.

"It's Maggie," she said, without any kind of greeting. "Is Gemma there? I need to talk to her."

"Oh, hi, Mags. No, she isn't. She left, what? Must be at least twenty minutes ago. She'd promised your mother she'd be home by ten. Isn't she back yet?"

"No." The floor wasn't moving any more, but waves of heat and cold were washing through Maggie and she felt more unsafe than ever. "It shouldn't have taken her more than six minutes at the very most. Did she leave on her own?"

"Of course, not. I wouldn't have let her. Jed was with her. You know, Jed Springthorpe, the most responsible boy in the whole school. She'll be all right with him. Honestly, Maggie. Don't fret. They've probably just stopped off for an illicit drink. Or a f.a.g or two. I know they're not supposed to smoke, but I bet they do,"

Maggie muttered something vaguely polite, then cut the connection to phone Gemma's mobile again. Again she got the jaunty message.

"I'm going to look for her."

"I'll come with you."

"Mum, don't be silly. With your knees, I'll be quicker on my own. And someone needs to be here in case she gets back."

Maggie thought there was no point bothering with a jacket. The air was warm enough. Even the pavements still held some of the day's heat. Thank G.o.d it was light still. Somehow this would seem even worse in the dark. And Gemma was nearly sixteen. Lots of people started work at sixteen. In her day, people of that age were travelling the world on their own. Maybe they still were. This panic was absurd.

But she couldn't keep it down. Something had happened. Gemma never turned off her phone. And she never left it to ring so long the voicemail cut in. She was far, far too keen to have any kind of contact with anyone.

She and Jed could have chosen any of four different routes from Gillie's house on the other side of the main road. The most direct would have taken them past the local supermarket, but there were no enticing attractions to make them linger there. It shut early on Mondays, so they wouldn't even have been tempted to drop in to buy drink. But two of the other streets had pubs, and the third an expensive wine bar. Normally that would have been out of their reach financially, but tonight they had the money Maggie's mother had handed over.

Maggie pushed open the door of the first pub to be a.s.saulted by heavy, pounding music, and excited yelling conversations. She almost fainted with relief when she saw the bright blonde straight hair of a tall slim girl by the bar.

"Gemma!" she shouted across the shrieky crowd. "Gemma!"

Three girls looked round. None of them was her daughter. The girl at the bar turned her head lazily, perhaps wondering at the unexpectedly adult voice, and revealed herself to be a total stranger.

Maggie was out again an instant later, running now towards the other pub. She had no more luck there. Outside again, she sent Gemma a text: "RUOK? Pls phone."

Then she waited, leaning against the wall outside the pub, among a bunch of curious smokers, staring down at the small screen, begging for an answer. Nothing came. She phoned again. Again she heard the message.

"Jed," she said aloud, trying to think of the quickest way of getting his number. Her mind wasn't working properly. Gillie, obviously. But she hadn't brought that number with her either.

She began to run again, heading for home by the most direct route, needing to get to her address book as fast as possible. Her useless feet caught in every loose paving stone, until she gave up and kicked off her shoes, bending down to scoop them under one arm. As she righted herself, she pressed the speed dial for Gemma's number, and ran on, her shoeless feet keeping a much better grip on the paving stones.

Her tights ripped in moments, but that didn't matter, and once her right foot hit something soft, disgusting. Even that didn't make her pause. She ran on until a st.i.tch savaged her midriff and forced her to stop just at the entrance to the supermarket carpark.

She'd forgotten the disabling pain; it was so long since she'd moved faster than a brisk walk. Gasping, fighting to get past the spasm, hugging herself, she looked at the long low buildings of the supermarket and thought how odd they seemed with no lights on and no cars lined up in front. Rubbish was strewn all round the recycling bins and the lid of the paper and cardboard one was propped open.

A ringing sound forced itself into her mind, and she looked down at the little phone she was carrying, sticky now from the sweat on her hand. The sound wasn't coming from there; all she could hear as she held it was a faint buzz, but the rhythm of buzz and ring was the same.

When she put her finger on the off b.u.t.ton the ringing stopped, along with the buzz. She pressed the speed dial b.u.t.ton for Gemma's phone again and the ringing started up. The sound was coming from somewhere near the recycling bins.

"She dropped her phone," Maggie said, holding her right hand over her heart, as though to hold down its leaping and banging. "That's all that's happened. She's not answering because she lost her phone. She's probably safe home by now and they're laughing at my neuroses again."

Miraculously the st.i.tch had gone, and the breathlessness with it. She felt fit and well and marginally more sensible.

She followed the ringing sound as she searched for the phone. If she could restore it to Gemma, it might help their continuing war, show how she understood that endless phoning was important, and texting and friends and doing everything except revision.

Another sound punctuated the ringing. A tiny gasping voice. "Mum. Mum. Mum. Mum. Please. Oh, please. Mum."

Maggie felt as if something had gone wrong with time, as though it was stretching out towards eternity. Her thoughts were racing, but each step took aeons to achieve.

Each recycling-bin lid she lifted seemed to weigh several tons. That agonizing voice went on and on and the phone kept ringing. She reached the gla.s.s recycling-bin and fought with the lid.

"Mum. Mum. Mum. Please come. Please. Mum."

This was the one. The voice was louder here.

"Gemma, darling, I'm here. Don't worry. I'm here."

The light was much dimmer now. It must have been nearly eleven. But Maggie could see down into the blackness of the bin, to where her daughter was lying in a foetal curl.

Gemma's head was a ma.s.s of dark-red stickness, the laboriously straightened, gleaming blonde hair matted now with blood. Light from the street lamps caught edges of broken gla.s.s and showed cuts all up and down the bent bare legs.

Maggie leaned down to touch her daughter's skin, but her arms were too short to reach deep enough into the bin. She punched 999 into her phone, all the time saying Gemma's name, pouring out words of rea.s.surance that meant absolutely nothing, because there was no rea.s.surance to be had here.

"Police," she said into the phone when they answered. "Police and ambulance."

"What's your address?"

She told them where she was and what she'd found, not saying it was her own daughter.

A patrol car drew up only two minutes later, and two uniformed officers got out, putting on their caps as they strolled towards her. Maggie couldn't speak now, just gestured towards the bin and stood back to let them see.

"Christ!" said one, pulling at his phone.

"I've already asked for an ambulance," Maggie said, surprised to find that her voice still worked. "Thanks for coming so quickly."

She couldn't understand why the two officers looked at each other in such a weird way.

"We'll hurry up the ambulance," said the woman. "Come and sit in the car and tell me how you found this girl."

"What?" Maggie stared at the officer's pleasant pink ignorant face. "What d'you mean, sit in the car? I'm not leaving her."

Later, hours and hours later in the hospital, she was sitting down, waiting. She'd told the police everything she knew. She'd phoned her mother to report and spent what felt like hours rea.s.suring her. No, no, of course it wasn't your fault. Of course you were doing what you thought was right. It was generous of you to give her money.

And then she'd come back here to wait, sitting on the edge of the hard plastic chair, not even noticing it was cutting off the blood supply in her legs until the pins and needles started actively to hurt.

A white-coated girl, woman, was walking towards Maggie now. The stethoscope banged her chest lightly with every step. Her expression was serious. Maggie ground the nails of one hand into the palm of the other, and waited again.

"She hasn't been raped," said the doctor. "That's one thing."

"And the rest? How bad is it?"

"All head injuries are serious. She's taken quite a kicking. I'd say there were at least two of them. Scans show she's been bleeding into the brain, but we don't yet know the full extent of any damage."

"And the prognosis?"

The doctor's face froze into blank, stubborn politeness, and something inside Maggie some last vestige of hope died.

"Darling! Darling, wake up!"

Maggie opened her gummy eyes. Moving her neck was agony. She'd fallen asleep with her head at an atrocious angle against the wall.

"I've brought you some coffee. Come on. It's a new day. You need to be strong now."

"Have they said anything?"

Her mother bit her lip. "Not yet. I got here about an hour ago, and they said they wouldn't know anything for a while. But the police are coming. They're going to want to talk to you, and I thought you'd like a chance to have some coffee, and maybe a wash even."

Maggie was picking hard crunchy grits out of the corners of her eyes. She took her fingers away and looked at her mother, whose own eyes were covered with a film of tears.

"Come on, Maggie darling. There's a cloakroom at the end of the pa.s.sage. Shall I take you?"

A tiny smile was all she could produce, but she could see it registering, which made it easier to speak without snapping.

"I can probably manage. But thank you, Mum."

Her mother's hand encircled her wrist for a second, then let her go. "I'll be here with the coffee," she said. "And I brought a sandwich too in case you're hungry, but it doesn't matter if you're not. You don't have to eat it."

Tears were pouring down Maggie's face as she headed for the loos.

The police officer who was waiting beside her mother looked much more senior than the two who'd come last night. He was wearing a suit made of some thinnish grey material and a white shirt, with a dark-blue tie.

"Mrs Tulloch?" he said, shaking her hand. "I'm very sorry about what's happened to your daughter. Do you feel up to talking?"

"If it'll help," said Maggie.

Her throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with wire wool they'd then pulled slowly up and down all night. And all her joints were stiff and painful.

"Didn't anyone see anything?" she said. "Or hear it? I know the supermarket shuts early on Mondays, but there are usually people in the streets at that time. And there are houses all round. You can't be kicked like that and make no noise. Someone must have heard something. The marks on her body make the doctors think there were two of them at it."

Which means it wasn't Jed, she suddenly thought, with real grat.i.tude. Jed. Why didn't I think of him before?

"Has anyone found the boy?" she said aloud.

"Boy?" said the inspector. "What boy?"

And so she told him about Jed, who was supposed to have been so responsibly escorting Gemma home by ten o'clock.

"Have you got a phone number?"

"No. But I can get it for you."

"Or a surname?"

Her brain had shut down again as guilt poured through it. What if Jed had been in one of the other bins, bleeding all night, bleeding out maybe? Dying? And she hadn't said anything.

"Gerald Springthorpe," said her mother.

"Was he I mean, is he Gemma's boyfriend?"

"No. Just a friend. They're all at school together, so he's probably sitting in the exam room now."

Maggie noticed that her mother was talking absolutely normally, sensibly, without any carping or martyring herself. She was in charge, and in some weird way it helped.

"We'll talk to him later. Can you tell me . . .?"

His voice seemed to be coming from further and further away. Maggie's temperature control had gone again. Shivering, boiling, she felt the floor tilting upwards and then nothing.

They'd found Jed by the time Gemma was p.r.o.nounced dead three hours later, and one of the DI's juniors was relaying his story to Maggie. Listening to it helped to hold her in the present, but it couldn't stop the tears that came out of her eyes in great gouts. More fluid than she'd ever have believed a body could hold. She didn't even try to stop them, or dry her face.

"He says they were together all the way to the Bull, then a mate of his called out and wanted them to come in for a drink," the police officer told her. "He says Gemma refused, said her nan would kill her if she was late home again. He said OK, he'd take her to the door, then come back to join his mate in the pub, but Gemma asked him if he thought she was a baby."

"So he let her go," Maggie said, thinking what tiny things had made this huge unalterable disaster: her own insistence on not being out late on school nights; Gemma's pride; Jed's friend hanging around the pub at just the wrong moment.

"It wasn't his fault, Mrs Tulloch. Really it wasn't."

"Didn't he hear anything?" Maggie said. "It was only a street way. She must have screamed."

Then she thought about the noise she'd heard in the pub. Jed had probably been inside then. If she'd known, if he'd recognized her, would there have been time to find and save Gemma?

Maggie bent over her knees, fighting to keep the howl inside her body.

"With all that music no one could've heard anything from outside," the officer said, then echoed her thoughts: "You'd know that I expect. I mean, you were in there yourself. We've got you on the CCTV, calling her name. Jed and his mate were there, too. The film proves his story."

"So no one knows who did it?"

"Not yet. I'm sorry, Mrs Tulloch. We're doing everything we can. We've taken every possible kind of sample. The labs will . . ."

Maggie stopped listening. What did it matter anyway? Gemma was dead. It could've been anyone one of her own clients, even, hanging about, bored, grabbing a pa.s.sing girl to rob her of her phone and whatever pathetic little amount of money she had.

Had she fought back? Was that why they'd kicked her to death. Or were they crack-crazed thugs, getting off on her terror and their power?

"What about the secret cameras by the bins?" said her mother.

Maggie raised her sodden face and saw the officer looking sceptical.

"What secret cameras?" he said.

"The council put them there by the bins only a few weeks ago. One or two of the s.l.u.ttier neighbours were flytipping nearly every day. Dumping their smelly rubbish in the recycling bins. So we got the council to put the cameras there. They should've had film in and been running. They must show what happened."