But I understand how she feels. The national papers have connected Lark and Elise’s disappearances. Put their photos together on the front page. Two pretty blonde teenagers disappearing without trace sold papers. And there was a feature on Jackson’s past almost identical to one that had appeared when he and Lark disappeared. It told of how he left home at eighteen, went to live in America right up until his parents’ death three years ago. Told of how he’d moved in with my mum. How he’d split up her marriage. But this time they’d tracked down an old girlfriend over in the US, who’d talked freely about how he’d used her, slept with other women, and left her broken-hearted.

I wasn’t surprised they described Jackson as a womaniser, though I was unsure of the relevance. And the media had simply joined the dots between Lark and Elise, and made a wiggly line.

After pulling on her boots, Rosamund leans in and kisses my cheek. ‘Take care, Amelia,’ she says, and with a waft of expensive perfume, she’s gone.

Chapter 44

Present Day

Amelia

‘Let me treat you to your cut and blow-dry, or whatever you young women do to your hair these days.’ Dad grabs his wallet and hands me a wad of ten-pound notes.

‘You don’t need to do this, Dad.’ I’m not even sure I want to go into Berwick. I look dreadful, and feel more than a bit dodgy after drinking too much last night. Quite frankly, having my hair cut really doesn’t feature highly on my life plan right now.

‘Take the money, Amelia,’ Dad says. ‘Do whatever you want with it. Buy some new clothes, perhaps. A bit of retail therapy might do you good. Do it for me, love. I’m worried about you.’

‘I’m worried about you too, Dad,’ I say.

‘Then go into town, treat yourself, and that will make me feel much better.’ He smiles. ‘Tell you what, let’s meet for lunch at Molly’s Café after my museum stint.’ He walks away, leaving the money on the table, and grabs his coat from the hook by the door. ‘I’d quite enjoy a heart-to-heart with my beautiful daughter.’

*

I retrieve my old bike from the garage, dust off the cobwebs and pump up the tyres, and begin my ride into town, careful to miss any icy patches as I go. It’s a bright chilly day, and the sight of open fields stretching for miles either side of me, and a clear blue sky, is uplifting. By the time I lock up my bike outside the Berwick Advertiser, my head has cleared and endorphins waken from what feels like a hundred-year sleep.