On the aircraft steps, I noticed it had finally stopped raining. I had been wearing the same clothes for two days. My socks and shoes had dried, but I smelled of river water, and when I closed my eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, I saw the deer swimming across the square, the pink of its panting tongue; I saw David sitting on the chair in the dark, his eyes closed, holding the drawing on his lap.

I took the airport bus, then the train east to Swindon. There was a cab waiting in the taxi rank. As we drew away, I sat bolt upright in it, watching the familiar streets unfurl. The sun was breaking through as we took the road to Marlborough. The Downs were green, spring green. Beside the road, in the verges, the may, the elderflower, the cow parsley, all of it waiting for a single touch of sun to break into froths of white flowers.

We came down the steep hill into town. Here it all was, the wide market square, the town hall and tearooms. In my neck, I could feel my pulse throbbing. The fear of being seen, of being judged. My eyes flitted from passerby to passerby, from the small line of shoppers waiting for the bus, to the teenagers clustered round the bench outside the bank. What could they say to hurt me now?

One of the teenagers turned to throw his cigarette butt into the street and over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of a small face, thick dark hair. I could feel the daggers in her eyes even after we passed. In truth, I didn’t need to come here to meet her. I took her with me everywhere. I told her again, what I’d been trying to tell her for years. You did the best you could with the tools you had at the time. We did the best …

The Sun had changed its name and become a restaurant. There was a Pizza Express. The Tudor Rose was no more. Waitrose and The Polly were as busy as ever.

My phone rang and I picked up without checking to see who it was, hoping it would be Peter again, but it wasn’t; it was Hutchinson.

“Where are you?” He sounded odd, like he had a cold or something, a rattle in the chest as he drew breath.

“Back in England.”

“In London? Can we meet? I might have found something out. It’s urgent. I can come to you. Wherever you are.”

The driver asked if we should go left or right.

“Right, up Church Lane. You’re looking for the vicarage.” I pointed up the hill and then turned back to the phone. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be back in London. I’ll call you later, but, the thing is, I think … I think I know where Peter is.”

“I have to see you—”