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and I don’t have a clue who it could be. Is Jen Hood even her real name? If so, could it be one of the women staring out at me from my MacBook screen right now? If so, who are they? Do they have my daughter or is this some sort of cruel trick?
    I remember from reading some crime thrillers that often the problem police have is weeding out the cranks from the real information and clues they get. There’s a whole subsection of society that gets its kicks from trying to interfere in police investigations and sending idiotic letters and messages claiming to be responsible. It’s all part of the desire to be seen as powerful and in control. It’s a psychological disorder, and a dangerous one too.
    I vaguely recall reading about the investigation into the Yorkshire Ripper in the 1970s. After ten women had died, the police received letters and phone calls from someone with a Wearside accent claiming he was the Ripper. The police took it seriously and focused their search on Wearside. In the meantime, the real Yorkshire Ripper carried on and killed three more women.
    In a way, I hope that’s what this is. It would be the sickest possible prank to play, but at least it would mean that its contents weren’t real. Although, as much as I try to deny it, something about the message seems all too real. I don’t know if it’s a sixth sense or what, but I can almost feel the sincerity and determination behind those words.
    Presuming it is real, what can I do? Sure, I can go to the police with it but then it’d either be taken seriously or treated as a potential hoax. If it’s the former, what can they do? Odds are it will have been sent from an internet café or some sort of anonymous server. Deep down, I know that there’s another reason why I don’t want to alert the police to the email just yet, but that’s not something I’m willing to entertain.
    I tell myself there’s a perfectly good reason. These ransom notes always come with a caveat, whether it’s implicitly said or not. Everyone who’s ever read a thriller novel knows the rule: You involve the police, the deal’s off. That’s not something I can risk, not if this Jen Hood person really does have Ellie. Ellie means the world to me. More than anything I could possibly risk to get her back. More than...
    I do the only thing I can do. I hit Reply and start typing.
    I delete my words so many times, I can’t even remember what I’ve written before. By the time I’ve finished it’s boiled down to just three words, which I look at again before pressing Send .

    Who are you?

11

    I barely slept a wink throughout the night, and the worrying got even worse. Once Tasha had come home and the police had called off the search for the night, the sheer panic reached its apex.
    Not only was she still missing and no-one was out looking for her, but it was dark, cold and we had no idea where she was or if she was safe. Bizarrely, the only thing that kept me vaguely sane was the ransom note I’d had earlier yesterday evening. At least if I convinced myself it was genuine then it meant Ellie was alive and safe.
    We had all the usual lines from the police. The vast majority of people return home safe and sound after 24 hours, if not 48. If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that since yesterday, I’d be a millionaire.
    We’ve had an officer camped out on our doorstep all night. We’re not quite sure why. The official police line is that they want to protect us from any undue media attention. In my paranoid state, I’m convinced they want to keep an eye on us. I’ve read enough crime books to know that close family are always the first to come under suspicion. Statistically speaking, they’re the most likely to be guilty.
    The local BBC radio stations are running the story on their news bulletins and Tasha’s Facebook status has been shared almost a thousand times. By now, everyone in the town and the area’s more than aware of Ellie and still no-one has seen her.