The screen fills with links, underneath tiny thumbnails of my own face, the same picture used over and over. The one they used at the time, of me sitting on a rock at the beach, the sea in the background. My hair, much darker and longer than it is now, is whipped across half of my face, as I laugh up into the camera. Not a care in the world. A picture taken before everything changed. Before my dreams were haunted by that sickening crack, the blood that spread quicker than I ever thought possible, that pale, white face, eyes closed. I don’t read the articles, simply scan over the headlines, picking out my own name, the words nanny and disgrace. Feeling sick – it seems it still hasn’t gone away, not even after five years – I shut the browser, before reopening it and giving myself a mental slap in the face.

I type in George Snow. All this brings up is a list of Wikipedia pages, one for a film-maker, one for a researcher, and one for a park in Boca Raton. I should have known it would never have been that easy – it’s not like it’s an unusual name, after all. I think about my own situation, about why I am so terrified that they will find out about the secret I have been keeping, and what they would think if they knew. What if that was the same for Mr Snow? I start typing again, trying different combinations of key search words. George Snow, Manchester, crime. George Snow, Manchester, Surrey, arrest. George Snow, Manchester, kidnapping. Bingo.