Back home, she unclips the dogs’ leads. A beam of low autumn sun illuminates the room. She can’t settle. She needs answers. She cancels her midday hair appointment and drives back to Huntingdon. Thankfully, it’s a clear run.

She’s there by 9.45 a.m. She parks in the adjacent road, tucked far enough out of sight so as not to arouse suspicion, but still giving her a clear view of number twenty-nine. Her silver-grey VW people carrier is sufficiently ordinary looking so as not to attract attention.

Max’s old car isn’t on the drive. The woman must have gone out. Still, she’ll wait, watch the house. This is crazy; is she going to sit here all day until she comes back? And what’s she going to say to her this time that’s different from before? They could be dangerous. She should leave, call the police, tell them this couple might know something about Max’s disappearance. But an overwhelming urge to find out what’s going on is eating at her. There has to be a reason why they have the same patterned wallpaper and carpet. Something is going on and she wants to find out what it is right now. She digs around in her handbag and takes out the key for Plot 146 then drops it into her coat pocket.

Easing herself out of the car she sidles over to the front door. There are pots of lavender either side of the mat, except one plant is dead and the other is wilting. The dog starts barking; a relentless one-note bark that confirms no one is in. Without thinking, her fingers dip into her pocket. She draws out the key and stares at it in her palm. The truth is painful, but so is ignorance, her mother told her many times. Would she rather not find out?

The key slides into the lock and turns. Her heart drumming, blood pumps loudly in her ears. One more bark rings out as she opens the door. Taking a quick glance behind her, she slips inside.

The springer spaniel jumps out of its basket in the living room and runs towards her leaping up, a string of saliva swinging from its mouth. She stares at the wallpaper, the carpet and rocks backwards. It’s not just like their wallpaper at home, it’s exactly the same. She stares agape at the flower pattern duplicated up and down the hall and stairs. Dizzy, she blinks hard trying to take it in. The dog jumps up at her again. The nametag under her chin reads Poppy and a phone number. The same name as one of theirs – but this dog is male. She gently pushes him away. What is all this, a sick joke? He barks again before sitting back down, tail wagging. A moment later, he picks up a ball in his mouth and snakes around her legs, thumping his tail against her.