The sound of a car crunching on the gravel in the yard made me jump. I got to my feet slowly, my muscles straining at the effort. Then I peeped out of the window to see DI Bradley climbing out of his car. This wasn’t expected; I felt my skin prickle. That sense of foreboding again. Nothing good could come from him visiting me this late in the evening.

I opened the door just as he raised his hand to knock, managing to startle him in the process.

‘I heard your car pull up, looked out the window,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Can I come in, Elizabeth?’

‘Of course,’ I said, stepping backwards, suddenly self-conscious about the whiskey glass still in my hand. ‘I was just having one to steady my nerves. It’s been a difficult few days.’

‘Well, if I wasn’t on duty I’d be asking you to pour me a drink, too,’ he said with a tired smile.

‘The pressure must be on at this stage,’ I said, more than aware I was stating the obvious.

‘Very much so. And I’m hoping you can help me again.’

‘I’ll do whatever I can,’ I told him, leading him through to the kitchen, where he sat opposite me at the table.

‘I’m afraid there was an incident earlier today, at the home of one of Clare Taylor’s friends.’

‘One of the girls who received the flowers?’ I asked, and he nodded.

I wondered if it was the same woman who Ingrid had mentioned earlier. Whose husband the police wanted to talk to.

‘I can’t reveal all the details, but I was wondering if you’d look at a picture for me, see if it rings any bells for you at all.’

I shrugged and he took out his phone, drew his finger across the screen, scrolled and then turned the screen to face me.

‘This was left at the home of Rachel Walker today. There was an attempted break-in. Rachel has confirmed the identity of everyone in the photo and tells us she believes the girl on the right-hand side of the picture to be your daughter, Laura.’

I knew the picture immediately. It was one of those that had disappeared from my photo album. The realisation was like a kick to my stomach. My eyes were drawn directly to the image of Laura, then to the newly but angrily scored-out face of another girl. Clare. Her face obliterated by angry strokes of a red pen. No trace left at all of her smile, or the confidence she’d exuded back then.

Then I looked at the red circles drawn around the faces of the two other grinning schoolgirls. The angry words written beneath one – a girl with blonde frizzy curls and a look of defiance I’d never seen on the face of my own daughter, despite our many similarities.