‘My God, she’s just a kid. She can’t be more than thirteen or fourteen?’

Susie nods. ‘Now, bear in mind, the rumours only started just before Lily disappeared. Three years later. So she’d have been seventeen then.’

‘But Robbie was an adult.’

‘Oh, I know. But she was absolutely gorgeous, and aren’t men easily tempted?’

That’s not what I mean at all, and there’s so much I could say right now but I let it go as Susie flips to the next photo. Again, it’s of Mark and Zara, but Tom, or whoever took the photo, has moved back and there’s a third person visible now too, someone I recognize as Fran. And in the background, a little way away, a boy around the same age as Mark. He’s on his own, leaning against another tree, hands in pockets, looking over at the trio posing for the photo. He’s a good-looking kid, wearing an expression of disinterest and condescension remarkably well.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask.

‘A boy called Gavin.’ Susie’s cheeks flush. ‘Awful person. He married a girl from Rowanbrook, if I remember. I don’t know what she or anyone else saw in him.’

As I watch her face bloom pink, it strikes me now that she possibly does know about the rumours that went around; about Tom and the babysitter, about Mark punching Gavin.

This is my first time seeing Gavin but there’s nothing about him that rings any bells. I couldn’t say I’ve never met him any more than I can say I’ve never met Eddie Hogan or Robbie Murphy or Victor O’Brien, but really, they’re just faces that mean nothing. In fact, the only person who looks in any way familiar – and it may be because I know her now as an adult – is Cora.

‘Can I see a photo of Cora again?’

‘Yes, I have a better one actually. Hold on.’ Susie sifts through the pile. ‘I was looking at them last night and one in particular stood out. The glum face on Cora, the bored, grumpy expression on her dad … He had absolutely no interest in being there and didn’t try to hide it.’

‘Where was her mother?’

‘Oh, she was always off jet-setting around the place. Visiting her mother in Spain, if I remember, but to be honest, I suspect it had more to do with the Spanish sunshine and avoiding the tedium of parenthood than anything else. I shouldn’t really say this – Ines and Victor were our friends – but’ – she looks at me over her glasses – ‘she wasn’t exactly the most attentive mother.’ She looks down at the pictures again. ‘Ah, here it is.’

She passes the photo to me, pointing at the small girl at its centre. ‘Look at poor Cora. Solemn little thing. A bit quirky if you ask me, but hardly surprising given the upbringing she had. And she was harmless, really. And Victor – he couldn’t be less interested if he tried.’