‘She’s fine.’

‘And your father?’

‘I don’t have a father, I’m afraid, I’m not much use to you. I have a father-in-law though! And he forgets things too.’

Ruth claps her hands together again. ‘How nice. Tell me more about him!’

‘Oh. Well. He’s funny and a bit politically incorrect and he’s getting forgetful, though sometimes I think he’s putting it on to get out of things he doesn’t want to do.’ Abruptly, I stop and look at Ruth, staring at the clear blue eyes. Ruth stares back, unblinking.

‘You know’ – I hold up the Polaroid again – ‘I can’t help thinking about where these were found.’

Ruth smiles benignly but just under the surface, there’s something sharper now. She doesn’t say anything.

‘Neatly placed in an envelope, carefully sealed inside a watertight tin. I mean, it doesn’t scream kidnapper.’

Still Ruth says nothing, but her eyes are clear and fixed on me. Listening.

From down the hall comes the sound of a door opening, a murmur of voices. The room is stiflingly hot with sun streaming through slatted blinds and – I touch the radiator under the window – the central heating is on too.

‘Mrs Cavanagh, I found a symbol on the wall just beside the radiator in what was Lily’s room. An “evil eye”.’ This feels wrong. Ruth is so old now, and on the surface at least, it looks like dementia has her in its grip. But there’s something below that surface, something telling me Ruth might know what she’s talking about. A small chance, but still. And I’m so close now.

From out in the corridor comes the swish of a floor cleaner and soft footsteps. How long until someone asks me to leave?

‘Mrs Cavanagh. I keep thinking about the evil eye. Was Mary doing something to Lily? Was Lily in danger?’ I sit forward in the chair, just inches from her now. ‘Did Mary hurt her? Is that why you took her? To save her?’

Ruth grips the arms of the chair but doesn’t reply. I know it’s not OK to question an elderly lady like this, but I can’t stop now.

‘Mary and Robbie Murphy, the so-called golden couple of Rowanbrook – but maybe Mary wasn’t quite as perfect as everyone thought? What exactly went on back then? And did Robbie Murphy die thinking his daughter was dead? Did you let him go to his grave without knowing she was safe and well?’

‘That man does not deserve your pity.’ Ruth spits the words and she no longer sounds like an elderly dementia patient; her voice is clear as a bell and blistering with anger. I stop talking, ready to listen. And finally, thirty-three years on, Ruth Cavanagh tells her story.

51

May 1985

MARY CLOSED THE DOOR on the last straggling birthday guests and leaned against it. From outside, Susie Stedman’s voice wafted in as she and Della walked away.

That was lovely, but they really indulge that child, she was saying. Imagine how they’d cope if they had six, like I do! Robbie’s a great father, though, isn’t he?