Lizzie almost felt sorry for the old woman sitting in front of her, her eyes weak and watery, filled with uncertainty and maybe a glimmer of fear. Muriel Fisher had aged in a matter of minutes. What could be so bad to have caused such a reaction? Lizzie sat back in her chair, ready now to find out. Hoping she wasn’t about to be told yet more lies.

‘Go on, Mum,’ Anna said. Lizzie thought Anna’s eyes looked dark, lifeless. Not like they’d appeared the first day she’d met her at the church gate. She, too, should get out while she could.

‘It’s been thirty years,’ Muriel said shakily before pausing. Lizzie suppressed a laugh. She’d immediately remembered a similar line spoken by the old woman in the film Titanic, and half expected to see Muriel’s appearance change from the one in front of her to the thirty-eight-year-old Muriel from 1989, when all this started. Lizzie coughed, putting her hand to her mouth to disguise the smile. None of this was remotely funny; she recognised her reaction as one she used to employ when she was a child – a defence mechanism, she’d later realised.

Muriel’s attention was on her hands, her fingers turning the gold band of her wedding ring round and round. For a moment Lizzie was mesmerised, then she remembered the point of this chat.

‘Are you okay, Muriel?’ she asked.

‘Yes, yes. Just thinking.’ Finally, she looked up, making eye contact with Lizzie. Her heartbeat jolted as Muriel’s gaze, her non-blinking eyes, penetrated hers. ‘I thought I was saving you. Saving Eliza.’

‘So, it was you who got social services involved?’

‘Yes, I suppose I was the one who got the ball rolling. I didn’t act alone. I wouldn’t have interfered had it not been for the others agreeing.’

‘I see. But why did you bring me here?’ Lizzie said, scrunching her face up.

‘We needed to get you away from him. You were never allowed to speak with anyone when he was around. That’s why Reverend Farnley convinced him to enrol you in the Sunday school too, to distance you – get you alone. But that wasn’t enough. They wanted evidence.’

‘Who, social services?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t enough for us to be suspicious, for us to think he was neglecting you, abusing you, even. Mad, really. What would it have taken? For him to murder you?’ Muriel looked away. ‘I mean, they only had to look at you, see what you were doing with your toys to see you were disturbed.’

Lizzie flinched. ‘Taking dolls apart doesn’t necessarily equate to abuse though, surely?’

‘No, but together with the other things, we felt it did.’

‘And by “we” you mean the other villagers?’ Lizzie asked.

‘No, not all of them,’ Anna said. She’d been silent up till then. ‘You mean the women who were part of the Mapledon Meetings, don’t you.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement – bordering on an accusation, given the tone of Anna’s voice.