The articles were only reporting the facts, of course, that I had been convicted and then cleared of the Safran family murders, that I’d changed my name on my return to the UK, that I’d moved to Coldwater and started a new life. That I had been arrested and questioned over another murder, that of Anna Devine. That I had been dating the estranged husband of the victim – I hadn’t thought anyone knew about that. I shivered. It was cold out, a fine drizzle settling over my coat and hair. I wondered if Alex had seen the news, the scrutiny I had exposed him to, a man still in mourning. A horrible thought – was he the one who’d outed me? He was one of the few people who knew. But surely not – he wouldn’t do that to Sam, to himself. A familiar burn in my stomach, no less painful for being so. I had lost him. I’d told him who I really was and ruined everything. Never mind that I was innocent, that I’d been exonerated – the fact remained that I had been accused of murdering a child the same age as Sam. I understood, in a way, why he hadn’t called. There was no way back from this.

So what was I going to do? I couldn’t just accept my fate and I couldn’t sit on this damp bench all day. I needed to do what Jochem had said: turn my attention to the murder victim, Anna. What was her life like? Who would have wanted to kill her, cut her throat and dump her body in a forest half-hidden under a drift of autumn leaves? Aside from the most obvious suspect, of course: me.

I stood up – it was cold, and I couldn’t stay here. I had forgotten, with all this on my mind, that home wasn’t safe any more either, my little cottage haven. As I rounded the lane I noticed, distractedly, that there were more cars than usual, parked even on the grass verge opposite our houses. Audrey would not be happy about that. Then I saw a small knot of people round my gate, and realised – oh no. I had been stupid. Of course the reporters had come here too.