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him, but not well, and she didn’t particularly like him. Apart from anything else, he was far too handsome for his own good. His wife, Alison, was a chemist. O’Hara’s story was that he was out for a walk and had decided to drop in to say hello to the Lennons, but as he approached the villa he was met with Jenny running out of the housescreaming that Amy was gone. He immediately called the police, and Martin.
    The other couple were the Reillys, John and Margaret. For the past five years they’d been living in France, where she taught English and he was trying to build up a small vineyard so he could export his own wine. They had been at the market together in Fuengirola when Amy went missing and knew nothing until they received a telephone call from Alison O’Hara.
    The email went on to say that the Guarda Civil had launched an immediate full-scale hunt with helicopters and tracker dogs, and had at least a hundred officers scanning the beaches and nearby vacant villas and apartments. They’d said it was early days and they were confident they would find Amy. But at the bottom of the story, as it was describing the exact location, Rosie’s heart sank. The villa from where Amy vanished was only a minute’s drive from the main dual carriageway that goes from Malaga right along the coast and joins the motorway to Algeciras and Tarifa – the ports to Morocco. Within two hours of her being snatched, the child could be anywhere. She could have been taken to Portugal, or north towards France and the Netherlands. But if her kidnapper had gone to Morocco, that was a different story. She could simply vanish without trace.
    Rosie sat down with a glass of ice-cold mineral water. She looked at her watch. The kid had now been missing more than a day and a half. She sighed. Soon they’d probably find a body. She hoped it would be soon, for the sake of the parents. Her mobile rang.
    ‘ Buenos tardes , Rosie. Voulez vous coucher avec moi? ’ It was Matt, full of the usual shit.
    ‘That’s Spanish and French both, you twat.’ Rosie was glad to hear from him. ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I’m in the bar, darlin’, and I’m starvin’. I just got here half an hour ago. Had a quick shower and change.’
    ‘I’m only just here,’ Rosie said. ‘Tell you what, Matt, I’m going to jump in the shower, then I’ll meet you downstairs for a drink, and we’ll have dinner.’ She was taking off her clothes as she spoke. ‘I’m going to put a quick call in to the cops, see if I can get anyone who speaks English. And find out if there’s any press stuff going on tonight or what. We don’t need it tonight, but I want to see what’s what for tomorrow. See if they’re going to put the parents up.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Matt said. ‘There were a couple of relatives of the other couples back in Scotland talking on the telly. But nothing much getting said. They’re all in a mess.’
    ‘Can imagine.’ Rosie was naked now. ‘See you downstairs in fifteen, Matt.’ She hung up.
    Rosie made a call to the Guarda Civil in Marbella, and in her fractured Spanish asked if there was anyone dealing with press inquiries. She was put through to a man whose English was better than her Spanish. No. There would be no press conference with the family. They were still staying at the villa. There would be a press conference early tomorrow afternoon where the Guarda Civil would talk of their search.

CHAPTER 5
    By eleven the following morning, there was a posse of press camped on the sidestreet close to the Lennon villa. Mobile TV broadcast units from Spain jostled for position alongside the British TV stations, and the whole place was buzzing with activity. Camera crews and sound men stood around smoking and chatting, waiting for something to happen.
    The press pack were dotted all over the street. You spent so much time just waiting, you had to get used to the tedium. It was the reason why there was so much black humour around journalists on frontlines