It is on Hazel Archer’s twenty-fifth birthday that the second girl goes missing.
The child is only five years old, with hair like Snow-White’s and a rosebud mouth all puckered and soft in a never-ending pout. She was last seen as the light fell away from the land and the Devon coastline became a swathe of rough, black shadows. Night has drawn in quickly around the hotel, which perches high on a promontory over the English Channel, dark folds of rock stretching down to where the sea pounds on the wintry shore, gravelly waters pulling in and out like monstrous pistons.
Hazel is at her dressing table in the hotel room when the alarm is sounded. Jonny hums to himself, shaving at the bathroom mirror. Evie is next door in her own room, undoubtedly plugged into her headphones, eyes half-closed, long painted fingernails tapping along to the tinny beats in her ears.
The rapping on the bedroom doors begins along the corridor. At first, Hazel assumes it is room service, delivering aperitifs before the New Year celebrations start in earnest. But the knocking is too quick and moves on too swiftly for that. There is no cheerful clank of a bottle on glass, no surprised laughter or thank yous. Instead, there is a swift and sudden change of mood. A sea mist seems to swirl frantically down the corridors, chasing ahead, while searchlights beam on each and every room.
Jonny opens the door. A towel is around his waist, soap still clinging to his cheeks, his cropped, dark hair damp from the steam in the bathroom. Mr Lamb, the manager of Balcombe Court, stands outside in the corridor. Across the way, another staff member is knocking on doors opposite. Inside their bedroom, all is soft-furnished and -hued: a four-poster bed, winged velveteen-covered armchairs, mahogany bow-legged tables. Outside, it is a different country: the air is fraught with panic.
‘Is everything all right?’ Jonny enquires.
Mr Lamb is short and compact. He bounces uneasily on the balls of his feet, his breathing pinched and held tight. ‘A little girl’s gone missing,’ he says. ‘Her name’s Georgie. Over an hour ago – nearly two.’ He skewers Jonny with a stare before shifting his gaze beyond the line of his shoulder, over to where Hazel sits. ‘Have you seen her, either of you?’
Jonny turns back to Hazel and they look at each other. After the merest second, they shake their heads almost in unison, mouths drawn closed, perceptibly nonplussed.
‘No,’ Jonny says. ‘We’ve been in here for an hour, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Hazel? I haven’t seen any little girl.’ He frowns. ‘Maybe at lunch? I think I saw her in the dining room earlier. She’s the small dark-haired one, with the baby brother?’
Hazel’s eyes are wide, her skin shiny with moisturiser. Her hands are gathered in her lap. ‘Where was she last seen?’ she asks.
Mr Lamb shakes his head impatiently, keen to be off looking for the girl. ‘She’s five years old,’ he says, as if that is an answer. ‘Her mother is distraught. If you see her …’
‘Of course,’ Hazel replies. ‘Let us know if we can help.’
‘We can join in a search,’ Jonny adds.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Lamb answers. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as if praying to the gods. ‘There’s a storm coming, you see. If she’s outside …’
Hazel glances out of the mullioned window. The sky is pitch black beyond the glass. Balcombe Court is isolated, balanced as if on the air atop the sea. If Georgie is lost out there, she could fall down over the headland. She could be badly injured.
‘You could ask Evie,’ Hazel suggests. ‘Jonny’s daughter is in the room next door,’ she explains. ‘Jonny, go with Mr Lamb to check.’
‘Hang on, let me get some clothes,’ he says, retreating to the bathroom. He emerges a few seconds later, tousled in jeans and T-shirt, and he and Mr Lamb hurry along the corridor. Hazel stands as she hears a short rap on a door, the sound of Evie’s voice as she opens it, the murmurings explaining why they are there. Hazel moves to the window and looks out to where the yellow lights of the hotel seep onto the snowy ground.
She scrutinises her reflection in the dark glass. From downstairs, the aroma of roast meat, caramelised vegetables and garlic, of fruit punch and red wine, creeps into the room and she feels a similar sense of nausea as she had done once as a child, lying upstairs with a fever while her mother fried onions down below. She leans her forehead against a diamond of cold, damp glass framed by lead and history.
‘Happy birthday, Hazel,’ she whispers. ‘Happy birthday, precious girl.’