‘She was in Laurel’s room when I came home,’ I burst out, ‘she said she had the spare key.’

Fran stares at Ruth, confusion clouding her features. ‘You let yourself into my house? Into my daughter’s bedroom?’

‘Fran, I only wanted to . . .’ Ruth says, her hands raised in surrender. She looks at me, furious. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Actually,’ Kelly breaks in, her hands going up to tug at her ponytail, pulling it so tight I wonder how she can be comfortable, ‘I wondered if I could have a quick word with you, Ruth?’

‘Of course.’ Ruth wipes her hands on a tea towel, casually slinging it over the cupboard door handle as if she lives here.

‘You might want to speak in private,’ Kelly says, firmly.

‘No,’ Ruth says, raising her chin a little defiantly. She flicks her mousy hair away from her face, and I see a tiny crop of pimples on her make-up free forehead. ‘Anything you want to say, you can say in front of Fran. And Anna, I suppose.’ An ugly, dark flush starts to creep up her neck and for a moment, I don’t want to hear anything that she has to say. I know that something bad is coming. I glance at Fran, who stands rigidly, her whole being vibrating with unspoken anger. She nods at Kelly. ‘Go on then, if she wants to speak in front of us, let her. I’m interested in what she has to say, now that she thinks it’s acceptable to break into my house.’

‘Ruth,’ Kelly says, ‘I wanted to ask you about some abusive messages that have been left on the Facebook page set up to find Laurel.’

Ruth’s face goes pale, but she still stands there, rigid, not moving a muscle. ‘What about them?’

I think for a moment, not listening to Kelly’s reply, as something tugs at the back of my mind. Something that bugged me on and off for days, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on, has all of a sudden become clear.

‘It was you,’ I say, the smudge of red paint on the sleeve of her jumper as her coat slipped back on her wrist that day suddenly larger than life in my mind. ‘All of that was you, the paint on the fence, the messages . . . I thought it was Pamela.’

‘What?’ Fran is looking between Ruth and me with an expression of horror on her face. ‘Anna, what do you mean?’