I stroll along the snow-free pavements of Marygate, heading for the salon I used to go to in my teens. Yes, I definitely feel lighter. Perhaps Dad was right: I needed to get out, do something for me.

It’s almost eleven when I push open the door of the salon. Sandy, the owner, who’s in her fifties, and sports short white hair and trendy red-framed glasses raises her hand. ‘Amelia,’ she calls. ‘I thought I saw your name in the appointment book. How lovely to see you.’ She doesn’t wait for a reply, goes on talking to her customer, whilst tonging the man’s blond tresses.

‘Take a seat,’ a young girl with a ready smile says, and I remove my jacket, and sit down next to the window. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?’ The girl takes my jacket and hangs it on a hook near the door, ‘Sandy shouldn’t be long.’

‘I’m OK, but thank you.’

I take out my phone, and thumb through Facebook, then Instagram, though I’m barely taking in the posts, my mind far away. I’m finding the smell of hairspray, and perculating coffee; the sound of dryers humming, calming – normal; and the sun warming my face through the glass, comforting.

A sudden thump on the window shatters my peace, and my heart goes into overdrive. I’m clearly not as relaxed as I thought!

‘Hey, Mum,’ calls the young girl, waving at a woman in her forties who has pressed her nose against the window.

Oh God, my heartbeat won’t slow down and a fizz of anxiety pumps through my veins. I need to get out of here.

‘Right, what can we do for you today, Amelia?’ It’s Sandy, now beside me brandishing a comb and a pair of scissors, and I realise it’s too late to escape.

‘Just a trim, please,’ I say, my voice squeaky.

*

‘I was so sorry to hear about your mum,’ Sandy says, once the young girl has washed my hair. ‘And your sister too. Terrible. Terrible.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know how you’re coping.’

I’m not.

I should have known Sandy would mention them; but it’s too late. I’m here now, trapped beneath a hairdressing cape, frozen. Thank God she doesn’t know about the murders, Elise’s disappearance.

‘And I read about the murders too,’ she goes on. ‘What a nightmare.’

‘It’s been a difficult time,’ I say.

She sighs deeply, and takes hold of my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. ‘I can imagine,’ she says, her voice syrupy smooth.

I want to tell her to stop. Stop or I’ll cry. I want to tell her this isn’t what I came here for – that I came here to forget.