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wood through the gaps between the bars, but there was only enough room to hook a couple of fingers inside and they weren’t long enough to reach it .
    I stuck my forefinger through to explore the edge of the grill and slowly moved it around the cold metal edge, weaving it in and out of the bars. My finger brushed something uneven. A chink of metal rang out. I pushed my middle finger through. Links. Big thick links. Maybe a chain. A spasm of pain shot through my fingers, causing me to retrieve them and rub them into the palm of my left hand. The frustration was unbearable. I needed to do something .
    I coughed to clear my throat, took a deep breath and shouted. My voice isn’t naturally loud, it softens the consonants of English speech. But today I shouted and screeched like I’d never shouted before, for as long as I could. I paused and listened hard, desperately hoping for the tiniest shred of human presence. Nothing .
    Suddenly I remembered something, the words of my father back home: ‘When you are projecting your voice, you need to stand tall, open your diaphragm.’ I straightened my back, took another breath, deeper this time and shouted louder until my voice disappeared and my throat squeaked .
    Crushed, I leant back against the wall and slid to the ground. Where was this black hole? I concentrated hard, desperately listening for something familiar, the sound of life. I heard no traffic, no voices. Just my own breaths and the wind, whistling through branches that felt as though they were planted in the ground above. The thought made me shiver. I am buried alive .

Chapter Eight
    Jackman checked his phone as he crossed the college car park. A missed call from Reilly. He’d deal with that later. He reached a modern building that curved around the corner, entered and trudged up the stairs to Min Li’s apartment. Yesterday Min would have been climbing these steps, possibly on her way back from class.
    Their low key approach meant a distinct absence of police tape. Earlier, he’d despatched a couple of crime scene investigators to comb Min’s room for clues to her whereabouts, although he didn’t expect the search to yield much. They’d now secured Min’s room, but the rest of the building was open access in an attempt to keep everything as normal as possible for the students that lived there.
    Jackman entered the main door and scanned the purpose-built apartment that Min Li shared with three other Chinese students. It looked far plusher than any student accommodation he’d even seen. Apart from a pile of used coffee mugs, plates and bowls in the sink of the kitchenette in the corner, the magnolia living area was spacious and surprisingly tidy. A few brightly coloured cushions were squished into the corners of an oversized sofa in the centre of the room, a couple of bean bags strewn on the laminate floor around it; a pile of magazines were scattered beside an armchair in the corner.
    The room was empty apart from the plain clothes officer guarding Min’s door. Jackman exchanged pleasantries with him and entered Min’s bedroom. It was a small room, less than five metres square he guessed, with a bed in the centre and a desk on the far wall next to a small dressing table and a built-in wardrobe.
    He stepped into the ensuite bathroom, which housed a corner shower, sink and toilet. There was no window and just enough tiled flooring to accommodate one person comfortably with the door closed. A single toothbrush and tube of toothpaste filled a cup on the sink, a pink face cloth was folded over the side. A make-up case sat on the shelf above alongside bottles of shampoo and conditioner. All items one would pack if one was planning a trip away. Jackman chewed the side of his mouth and moved back into the bedroom. The bed was wrapped in a lilac and cream silk cover, tucked in neatly at the sides, undisturbed. He opened the wardrobe and ran his fingers along the hanging clothes. Jeans and jumpers were piled on the shelf