‘Thank you so much.’ I take another sip of my Coke and lay out a five-pound note on the counter, telling him to keep the change. As I turn to leave he leans forward.

‘Seriously, you don’t want to get involved with her,’ he says.

It’s a five-minute drive to the end of London Road where terraces of Victorian three-storey buildings, once beautiful homes, have long since fallen apart into run-down B&Bs and bedsits. I pull up by the corner of the road and, with no idea where to start, find one that’s slightly more well-kept than the others and ring its bell. An elderly man comes to the door in a brown dressing gown that flaps open at the knees, and after apologising for disturbing him I tell him who I’m looking for and give a description of Iona’s mother.

He doesn’t have a clue who I’m talking about, so I try the next door and then the next, until there are only a few more left. I’m giving up hope when I finally find someone who thinks she knows her, directing me to the end of the terrace.

I don’t believe Ange will actually be here but when I ring the bell, she answers, her face dropping as she takes me in. She glances awkwardly over her shoulder as she asks me what I’m doing here.

‘I just need to speak to you,’ I say. ‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’ I indicate the green over the road where there are empty benches opposite a small, deserted bandstand.

Ange nods, rummaging in her pocket for her keys before closing the door behind her. ‘What is it you want?’ she asks as we sit on a bench. A wind whips through the trees and I notice Ange shiver as she pulls her thick woollen cardigan tighter. She looks up at the sky. ‘Storm coming, I reckon.’

‘I need to know if the girl Iona went looking for is my sister,’ I say.

She looks at me, seemingly interested in what I’m asking, but doesn’t respond.

‘I found out she told my sister, Bonnie, that they were, but I don’t know if it’s true. I have a photo,’ I say, pulling out my phone and scrolling through until I find one of Bonnie and me. I enlarge Bonnie’s face but for a moment hold the phone in my lap where Ange can’t see it. ‘I know it’s a long shot. I don’t really expect you to recognise her.’ Regardless, I pass the phone to Ange.

She stares at the photo for a long while and I wait, my breath tight in my throat. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘it could be, I suppose.’ She hands the phone back.

‘There’s nothing about her you remember?’ I say. ‘No birthmarks or features?’

Ange shakes her head.