Cara’s right, we all should have listened more carefully to Grace—or Zoe, as she is now. She planted the diary at the murder scene, I’m sure of it. She knew Meg was reading it so she only had good things to say about her, only bad things to say about her dad. Meg would have approved of the way Grace portrayed him, pleased to know the tales she’d carefully woven about him were taking effect. As for Grace, she must have known Simon would be the main suspect. Whether he was calling or not, I don’t know, but I don’t think for a minute that Grace didn’t know what she was doing, that her diary wouldn’t add fuel to the fire, giving the police and the community someone to focus on. She was treading a fine line and she did it beautifully.

Her second account, written after the murder, still wasn’t the whole truth. She’d spent her life studying the best, after all. She knew just how many secrets to give away and how to bury the truth even deeper. I knew when I heard them talking outside the caravan that Tony and Robbie weren’t manipulating her; she was manipulating them. She knew she could frame Tony for Meg’s murder, that everyone would believe her over a man who’d been in trouble with the police since he was a teenager. She was the victim of years of abuse, but she was also her mother’s daughter through and through. After all this I’m in the same position I was a year ago, after I wrote the article for the Chronicle. What I believe to be the truth is totally at odds with what everyone else wants to believe is true.

Shouting from the game brings me back to the football pitch.

“Sounds like someone’s scored,” I say to Tim, but he doesn’t hear, he doesn’t care about the football, not now, not when he’s getting the details of a great anecdote he can dine out on for months.

“I heard that you don’t think it was the twins who did it.”

“Did what?” It’s facile to play stupid but I’m tired of these questions. The part I’m trying so hard to forget is the only bit everyone wants to talk about.

“Killed the mum, of course. I read somewhere you thought that Tony Craig didn’t do it.” He’s slowing his pace, trying to eke out the time he has to question me. My leg throbs and my head feels heavy, stuffed with all these questions I’m always asked but have promised Ruth I’ll never answer, not honestly, anyway. She wants to forget almost as much as I do.

“Mate, trust me, I’ve said all kinds of crazy shit since the accident: just ask Ruth—it’s the morphine. Whatever you read, or thought you heard, forget it. Honestly, I don’t remember any of it.”

I have the lie down pretty perfectly, but every time I say it a little bell chimes in my head.