A restless night followed the phone call with a child who might have been Barty’s sister. In the morning, he had a late breakfast and made a late decision. It was fifteen years since he’d seen his father. The temptation was to call Florence a liar – to say he remained his father’s only child – and stay home. But the hitch in Florence’s tone when she talked of his – their – father stayed with him. That desperate sob. And what she’d said shortly before they ended the call.

He gave me your number. Will you come?

Two factors led to Barty driving south along the motorway rather than to his office the morning after the call. The first was his natural tendency to help people in need. Florence’s desperate tone indicated she was such a person, and he found it hard to resist such a call to action. The second was curiosity. If Florence wasn’t his sister, what was her game, and how had she become such a convincing actor? If she was, how had his father come to possess his number? Barty had changed it twice since he’d last seen his old man. And if his father had means of contacting him all these years then why hadn’t he?

Fifteen years. That was how long had passed since Vincent Symonds went to get milk and never returned. In the aftermath of his departure, Barty had first felt the kind of desperate sadness exhibited by Florence on the call. Later, this gave way to relief. Vincent hadn’t been the best father and had been a terrible husband to Barty’s mother. In lots of ways, they were better off without him.

The worst of it had always been the not knowing. Fathers abandoned their children all the time. But to never look back, to not once attempt to contact the family you’d left… maybe his mother knew why, but she refused to speak about her ex-husband. Barty had often wondered if his father was dead. What else could explain the radio silence?

Maybe the truth was that he’d found a better life and wanted to forget the old one.

And yet…

He gave me your number.

Whatever the case, the answers likely lay in the place to which his father had escaped.

Pivert.

That was all the sign on the side of the motorway said. One word, black ink, a yellow background. He took the exit off an A-road that sliced through what looked like an eternity of roaming fields. A roundabout followed, and then a road that was theoretically intended for two-way traffic but which, in practice, had you pulling onto the verge every time a car came the other way, praying you weren’t about to lose a wing mirror.

He drove over a cattle grid, his teeth rattling. Soon, trees joined the endless fields, first as lonely sentinels in seas of grass, then in small groups, leaning towards one another for conspiratorial conversations, and then in clusters. The further he drove, the closer they got to the road, giving the impression of walls closing in on his vehicle. Soon, an unbroken line stood on either side, blocking anything beyond them from view. They seemed to get thicker the further he drove. Taller, too. He wondered how long it would be before they became emboldened enough to leap into his path, attacking him like the Ents from The Lord of the Rings.

For several miles, Barty saw no signs of humanity other than the road he drove on, but people will never be thwarted for long. Breaks in the trees appeared, revealing gates guarding white-fronted homes with thatched roofs. Barty, who had spent his life living in a city, was transfixed not only by how the gardens of these homes rolled into the endless fields beyond but by the space between neighbours. Strange as it was, city life had a way of making a person forget that the country was not a series of housing estates, high-rise apartment blocks and coffee shops; the only respite an occasional park.

As Barty neared the village centre, he saw groups of houses and even rows of terrace properties. But these lived in harmony with nature, not in opposition to it. Everywhere Barty looked was dense woodland and open heathlands – even the occasional bog.

The village of Pivert, ensconced as it was in the New Forest, looked like a postcard. This impression was driven home when Barty turned a corner and almost collided with a cow, and then was somewhat spoiled by the teenage girl sobbing in the street. The cow gave Barty a disinterested look and carried on, accompanied by a farmer who raised a hand to Barty. The girl was alone.

Although not yet at his destination, Barty pulled over and killed the engine. The girl sat on the grass fifteen metres away. A torn carrier bag danced but did not flee in the light breeze. There were items scattered around her. As he watched, she reached for one and immediately brought her arm to her stomach, bending and clutching herself. As she folded, her hood fell over her face, hiding it, and her long hair pooled in the grass.

That decided Barty. Throwing off his seatbelt, he got out of his car and made for the girl.

“Hey, can I help?”

The way she had grabbed her stomach and folded at the waist indicated some damage to the girl’s abdominal region. Her head jerked up as he spoke, and he saw that was not the extent of her injuries. Her eye socket was bruised, and her lip was cut.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

Barty pulled up short. He glanced at the items on the ground but did not defy the teenager’s wishes.

“Sure. My name’s Barty, by the way. I’m new to Pivert.”

She looked at him, her eyes swimming with understandable suspicion. Women were well aware of the dangers men could pose to them. This went double for teenage girls. Add to this the fact of her injuries, and she could well have trouble trusting anyone, let alone a stranger twice her age. As such, Barty hovered after introducing himself but made no move to continue his approach. If she asked him to leave, he would.

Instead, she said, “You a tourist?”

“Not exactly. Fair guess, though. Beautiful place like this, start of the summer holidays, the tourist rush must be right around the corner.”

But she shook her head. “Mum always called Pivert the New Forest’s best-kept secret. Tourists flood to places like Lymington and Lyndhurst, rarely here.”

“Must be nice,” said Barty. “Except for the gift shops. Maybe I’ll buy a magnet to help them out.”

This got a slight laugh, which was nice. He got the sense the teenager didn’t have much call to smile. It wasn’t only the bruises. He noted that she had spoken of her mother in the past tense.

After the laugh, the teenager held her tongue for a few seconds before curiosity got the better of her.

“What did you mean, ‘Not exactly’?”

“I’m visiting, but I’m not on holiday. My father lives here. Vincent Symonds. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

The girl shook her head.

“And there was me thinking everyone knew everyone in villages like this.”

“Over 1,000 people live in Pivert,” she said. “You know 1,000 people?”

“Good point,” said Barty. “At last count, I had only 954 friends.”

This earned him another chuckle.

“Anyway,” said Barty, “I’ve not seen him in fifteen years. My dad, I mean. Might not see him now. I hear he’s gone missing.”

“Oh.”

Barty shrugged – no big deal.

“You sure I can’t help you pick this stuff up?”

She looked at the various shopping items, then said, “I’m fourteen.”

Barty did not insult the teen by acting confused at the non-sequitur.

“Even if I wasn’t,” she went on. “I’m not the kind of girl who… well, I don’t… you know, I’m not—”

“Hey,” said Barty. “It’s nothing like that.”

The tears in the teen’s eyes told Barty this went beyond a mere concern that he was a pervert. The thought that he might think her easy hit some personal fear or trauma. He wanted to put her mind at ease.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

A hesitation, then, “Mary.”

“Pleased to meet you. You’ve no reason to trust me, but I promise I came over because I saw someone on the side of the road who looked upset and in pain. I would’ve done so whether you were fourteen or forty, male or female, human or badger. Okay, maybe not if you were a badger. They can be vicious.”

Another chuckle.

“On the pain, judging by the fresh blood on your lip, I’d say someone hurt you within the last few minutes. Just before I arrived?”

Mary’s hand went to her face, the cut lip, the bruised eye. The smile brought on by the chuckle vanished.

“I should go. My dad’s expecting me.”

She looked at the items spread around her, wincing as she imagined the pain she’d experience when collecting them.

“I won’t detain you,” said Barty, reaching for his pocket. “Can I just” – he took a card out and offered it to her – “will you take this?”

She glanced at it.

“I don’t need a private investigator.”

“I’m sure. You might need someone to talk to, though.”

“I won’t.”

“There’s no obligation.” He moved the card closer. “Just in case.”

While shaking her head, she took the card. Shoving it into her pocket, Mary looked again at the bits on the ground.

“Please,” said Barty. “Let me.”

At last, she relented. At her nod, he gathered the items and handed them to her, and she thanked him.

“Remember the card,” he said. “Call any time.”

To this, she said nothing. She remained suspicious of his motives. Although he understood that, it saddened him to live in a world where one person could not offer to help another without the worst being assumed, and where such suspicions so often came not from paranoia but experience. At least she had taken the card.

“Goodbye,” she said, her eyes cast to the ground. Barty watched her stagger off, wishing he didn’t know the statistics when it came to teenage girls and the kind of injuries Mary was sporting. Walking into a door could have caused the black eye and cut lip. Walking into a counter could have damaged her stomach. Together, they were indicative of human-made wounds, and the numbers said it was far more likely to be someone she knew than someone she didn’t.

My dad’s expecting me.

Barty could only hope he wasn’t watching her head back into the arms of her abuser.