I can’t help snapping. “It’s really important you tell me, Connor!” I say. “I think Beckett gave you the bunny and I need to find him. Urgently!” “Stop asking me questions,” Connor yells. “I told you! I don’t know him. I’ve never heard of him!” “Does a man with brown curly hair ever come over?” I ask. “He looks a bit like me. A bit like you, Connor! You must have seen him. Your mum must’ve mentioned him.” “My dad’s got curly hair.” “Yes, but I don’t mean your dad,” I say. “I mean someone younger than your dad, but older than me. I wish I had his photo. Think hard, Connor, it’s really, really important.” He suddenly stands up and makes a leap for a red metal pole. “I’m not allowed to say,” he blurts out, his hands squeaking on the wet metal. “I promised.” My heart bangs on my ribs, my tummy twists in a knot. “So you do know him then?” I ask. “You know who Beckett is?” Connor swings his legs high. He jumps back on to the platform and stretches out, tummy down, in the wet.
