GONE WITHOUT A TRACE

Hearing the toaster pop, I flipped an egg over in the pan and popped two tea bags in two mugs. ‘Breakfast’s ready, love,’ I called to my husband, Brian, then 66.

‘Thanks, pet,’ Brian said, shuffling into the dining room in his slippers, a newspaper tucked under his arm. As I placed the fry-up down in front of him, I gave him a smile and asked him what his plans were for the day. ‘I thought I might go to the bookies,’ he said.

Brian was nothing if not a creature of habit. It was July 2013, and we had