‘She wasn’t a very nice person …’ Fran says, as though that explains it.

‘But sure, every neighbourhood has someone like that. They might not give your football back but they don’t usually kidnap your child.’

Fran looks at the photo again.

‘Maybe we’re wrong about the whole thing – maybe Lily is only two in this and it was taken the year before.’

‘No. The more I look at it, the more certain I am. It’s winter in that photo, and that’s not a two-year-old child. God, if she did do it, it’s awful to think Ruth Cavanagh may have taken her crimes to her grave.’

‘Oh, Ruth’s not dead.’

‘What?’

‘She’s not dead, she lives in a nursing home.’

I’m tingling now, breathing faster.

‘But this means we might find out what happened to Lily.’ And if she’s Lila. ‘Do you know what nursing home? Could we ask your friend Zara?’

‘I suppose … shouldn’t we go to the police though?’

Oh God, no. Not yet. ‘I don’t know …’ I say carefully. ‘A photo of some leafless trees and an old lady in a nursing home … I feel like they’d laugh us out of the place.’ I force a grin.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Fine, I’ll check with Zara.’

I shouldn’t ask, but curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Was that her yesterday morning in the cafe?’

A small nod.

‘And, was that her daughter? Robbie’s daughter?’

Tight-lipped silence. I rush to explain.

‘It’s just, there’s something familiar about her and I’ve been looking at so many photos of Lily, and I couldn’t help wondering if Saoirse is Lily’s half-sister?’

‘Look, this is none of your business and it’s not my place to say, but no, Zara did not have Robbie’s baby. Now, can we drop it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ In a quiet voice, I add: ‘Is it still OK for you to ask Zara which nursing home she’s in?’

A sigh. But one of agreement.

I get up to go home, and despite Fran’s denial, Saoirse’s face is still etched on my mind.

50

June 2018

IT’S LATE THURSDAY NIGHT by the time Fran texts me the name of the nursing home. I google their visiting hours, and as soon as the kids are at school on Friday morning, I’m driving towards St Teresa’s Nursing Home in Dún Laoghaire. I’ve driven past it many times on my way to and from the kids’ school when we lived in our old house, but I’ve never been inside. Shiny laminate wood floors and the smell of disinfectant greet me when I push through the glass doors to the foyer. I sign in at the desk, tell the receptionist that Ruth is my aunt and that I’m home visiting briefly from America. My face is on fire as I say it and I’m convinced she’ll know I’m lying, but she doesn’t seem remotely perturbed and I’m taken by a care assistant to Room 26 on the second floor.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but after all the talk of a Trunchbull-style creature, I’m surprised to find a thin, wizened lady sitting in an armchair by the window. Her hair is the colour of storm clouds, and her dark-framed glasses take over most of her face. She smells of lavender and looks lost inside an oversized floral nightdress, like a diminutive walnut. Her bright blue eyes, resting on me, are surprisingly clear. But she does not look like a kidnapper, and suddenly I feel very foolish.