Two things struck her about the torch. Firstly, there was no doubt that it was small enough for Amelia to hold in her palm, so it couldn’t be the kind used by ushers, and Leanne had already spoken to an ex member of staff to confirm this. The second thing was that there were at least two keys also attached to the key ring, according to Amelia’s drawing. If they were house keys, it would explain why the woman who rescued Amelia had made sure to get the key ring back, and it would also indicate that it was an item in daily use. It wasn’t something half-forgotten at the bottom of a designer handbag. It didn’t sound like it should be forgotten at all.

After staring at Amelia’s drawing until her eyes stung, Leanne closed the file. One notable omission from her investigation was a follow-up response from Claudia. She was ignoring Leanne’s calls and, although Leanne had considered camping outside the Rothwells’ security gates, she was unsure what would be gained from it. The opportunity to catch Claudia out had been missed. Leanne should have delayed the reunion until she had set her trap properly, but deep down she hadn’t wanted to believe that Claudia had fooled her. She had fallen for the reluctant hero act, along with everyone else.

At least Claudia knew now that not everything she said was being believed, but was it too late to prove she was a fraud?

With a groan, Leanne let the file slide off her lap and onto the mound of scrunched-up clothes. Averting her eyes from the mess, the clutter, and the unfinished painting on the back of the cabin doors, she uncurled her legs and stood up. The circulation was returning to her tingling toes when she heard a tap on the window behind her. She turned to see a pair of legs standing on the jetty. The man wore brown brogues and green corduroy trousers, which immediately excluded Joe. She wondered if it might be a fellow boater, but there was only one person in her life who dressed like a seventies schoolteacher.

‘Shit,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, shit.’

Leanne scooped up the discarded clothes and shoved them under the futon, which was already crammed with stacks of paperwork and other rubbish she kept out of sight. She heard the awning being unzipped and, a moment later, the boat rocked as it adjusted to the weight of a heavyset man. Mal was on board, waiting by the hatch to gain entry. Or at least she hoped he was waiting. The cabin doors weren’t locked.

‘I won’t be a minute!’ she shouted as she picked up her bowl, two plates, and a selection of mugs that had been growing mould. She stacked them on the draining board on top of other dirty dishes before covering the mountain of shame with a tea towel.