‘There was a boy asking after you.’

Prue’s heart leapt. Simon?

‘Aaron, he said his name was.’

‘Ah, that’s nice. I got on really well with Aaron. What did you tell him?’

‘That you’re doing well, but going back to Norfolk. He said to get well soon, and not to worry about the garden. That he’ll sort it. Does that make sense?’

‘It does.’

Prue finished her lunch and closed her eyes. She still felt so tired, and her head ached.

‘We’ll leave you to have a little sleep, love,’ Stuart said, touching her arm and guiding his wife out of the door.

‘Thanks, Dad. See you later.’

Prue lay in the silence and tried to gather her thoughts. Her memory of that evening was still hazy. She’d walked home with Simon, they’d kissed on the step, and she’d watched him start to walk away. That bit was clear as day, and just remembering the kiss sent a shiver through her. And after that … going into the flat, only putting the one light on, padding through to the kitchen in the semi-darkness to make herself a drink. No, she hadn’t got that far, had she? There had been no drink. Just a noise, a movement, someone there. She had reached for a weapon. The kettle. Blue lights and bubbles. Held it up. Held her breath. But then there was nothing. Just a deep darkness that had slowly unravelled itself into hospital lights and strange beeping noises and pain. Voices. A bed. A story about being attacked. It was as if that part – the attack part – had happened to someone else. She couldn’t recall it at all. Being hit. Lying on the floor. The hot water. How long had she been there? It could have been hours. It felt like seconds.

She drifted off into sleep. A happy sleep, awash with dreams. Of a beautiful garden, the warmth of the sun, the scent of herbs, the feel of big strong arms wrapped around her.

When she heard the tap on the door it was as if it was all part of the dream. A foot tapping against a new wooden bench, a woodpecker tapping at the bark of a tree, the rhythmic back and forth creak of a swing. No, there was no swing. She’d decided not to have a swing. This wasn’t her garden, not her plan. The tapping stopped and the door opened. It wasn’t the door to the garden. It was the door to her hospital room. A voice broke into her dwindling dream and blew it all away. ‘Miss Harris? Prue? Are you awake?’

She opened her eyes and turned her head towards the door.

‘Inspector Fletcher. We spoke yesterday. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but there’s been a development. I thought you should know.’

‘Come in. It’s okay, I’m awake now. Have you seen my parents? Are they …?’

‘Here, love.’ Her dad followed the policeman into the room, her mum just a pace behind. ‘We’ve had a lovely coffee and a cake, and we’re back.’