“Look, we both know from personal experience how shit it is not to be allowed to see your kids every day, and I know, in a way, you feel a bit sorry for the bloke, and I don’t blame you, mate, but if he really did that to someone, to the mother of his child—”

I hold up my hands, shake my head at Dave. “Dave, I know, I know Simon probably did it. I didn’t say anything about him, did I?”

Dave narrows his eyes and gestures at his face to show he’s mimicking me as he says, “Yeah, but you were getting that look.”

“What look?”

“The sort of constipated look that means you’re thinking something nuts.”

“Look, Dave, most likely Simon is guilty. It’s terrible to think, but he probably killed Megan and took Grace. What I want to know is why, and why now? Grace, if she’s still alive, is going to be eighteen in a few months. If she wanted to see him, like he claimed, why didn’t he just wait a bit longer until she could decide herself?” As I talk, I feel another, bigger reason tugging at the corner of my mind, but as soon as I try to focus on it, it slips away again.

Dave glances over my shoulder at the screen again. I turn; they’re showing a repeat of the clip of Cara, covered in a gray blanket and being led away from number 52 by two police officers. Cara’s mum walks behind, clutching Grace’s cat. A police support officer drapes an arm around Susan’s heaving shoulders.

“That’s it!” Dave says out of the blue, snapping his chubby fingers. “She works in the Ship”—he nods towards the screen—“or at least she did last summer. I knew I recognized her from somewhere.”

The Ship is a big pub on the harbor. Like most places in Cornwall, it’s quiet in the winter and bloated with tourists in the summer. The kind of place that sells fluorescent shots for a quid on the weekends, it’s generally ignored by locals but not, it would seem, by Dave.

“Who? The mum?” I ask.

“Nah, the mum’s got that salon, hasn’t she? I mean her daughter, Cara, the one who found the body,” Dave says, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“Is she working there again this summer?”

Dave shrugs. How should he know? He takes a big pull on his pint before turning away from the screen and forcing his eyes back to me.

“So, go on then, mate, what was it you wanted to tell me about Ruth?”

But now I’m thinking about Meg and Grace I can’t even remember why I needed to talk about Ruth. It’s like my head is full of tiny doors concealing different aspects of who I am and only one can be open at a time. Now the door to Meg and Grace is wide open, swinging on its hinges, and the Ruth door is firmly locked and bolted. So I just shake my head and say, “It’s not important anymore, mate. Look, it’s been good to catch up, let’s go for a drink again soon, yeah?”