I creep slowly on the approach to the Nichols’s bungalow and set myself some rules. I won’t get out of the car. I won’t talk to anyone. I’m here only as a concerned Ashfordian, not as a reporter. I don’t know if restraining orders still apply if the protected person is dead, but I can’t afford any trouble.

I don’t remember the last time I was here, six months ago. I don’t remember because I’d drunk the best part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s—and I’m not a drinker. I don’t remember banging on the door, screaming at Meg and ripping up the front garden that volunteers from the Wishmakers had planted. I don’t remember breaking their sitting-room windows with one of my dad’s old golf clubs and I don’t remember the police tackling me to the ground.

It’s stopped raining by the time I park outside number 50, close enough to see what’s happening but far enough away to hopefully avoid being recognized. The police have cordoned off the area outside Meg and Grace’s house. Two uniformed police officers stand stock-still, hands clasped, outside the front door. The curtains are drawn in the big front window but the lights are on. One of the police officers is smiling slightly, delighted perhaps that something big, a drama like on telly, is at last happening here in Ashford. The pink bungalow looks just the same, though freshly painted, and I notice guiltily that they’ve replanted the garden. There’s a new-looking VW Caddy in the driveway, a Wishmakers sticker in the window; it looks specially adapted for Grace’s wheelchair.

There’s a loud smack at the window and a damp-looking palm lands flat against the glass. It’s Ben, cradling his camera like a baby. He bends down to look through the passenger-side window, his Italian features folding into a wide, easy smile, before he opens the door.

“All right, mate!” We shake hands before he steps into my car, kicking away the empty cans and crisp packets that litter the floor. “Thought you’d come down. I was having bets with myself, wondering whether you’d stay away—”

“Good to see you, Ben.” The only way to get Ben to stop talking is to regularly interrupt him. “I’m just here out of concern, as a neighbor, not for work. Is it . . . is it Meg?”

Ben nods his head slowly, sorrowful for a moment. “It’s a fucking tragedy, mate. Something bad, and I mean bad, happened here. Remember my wife’s mate Remi, goes out with Sam over there?” Ben nods his head towards the smiling police officer and keeps talking.

“Sam told me that Meg’s skull was smashed in using an iron bedside lamp, in her own bed. Sounds totally fucking brutal. ‘Frenzied’ is the word everyone’s using. Anyway, the neighbor found the body, and on top of that no one knows what’s happened to Grace. Mate, I know it sounds mad, but it’s looking like someone’s taken her.”

No, no, that can’t be right. Ben sees my frown, the confusion.