‘But I want to be. I don’t want to be so triggered by it; even a photo can affect me this much. I want to be able to think about her, to see her, without it meaning that I can’t sleep or eat or concentrate on anything good. I want us to have the healthiest relationship possible, whether that means never seeing her again, or inviting her to my thirtieth birthday party. And I want to be strong enough to figure all this out without doubting every decision.’

‘That’s going to take time.’

‘I hate time!’

‘And probably some counselling.’

‘I don’t have time for counselling!’

‘Maybe get through this summer, get through the Dream List, let things settle down with Joan, and then make the time.’

‘So what do I do in the meantime?’

‘Well, if I’m not mistaken, I think I heard someone mention a party…’

24

The following afternoon, Joan had her breakthrough. Tucked deep inside the pocket of a ratty rucksack that we found stuffed at the back of Leanne’s wardrobe was a birth certificate for Leanne Emily Armitage-Brown, born on 12 October 1988. Parents: Carole and Peter Armitage-Brown. Place of birth: Chester.

Joan didn’t have the internet on her phone so we skedaddled straight back to End Cottage and whipped open my laptop.

Carole Armitage-Brown had a Facebook account – all private, with a profile picture of a cat, so I made a friend request and moved on.

Peter Armitage-Brown came up on LinkedIn as a retired construction manager for a Cheshire building firm. He’d worked for the same company for forty-seven years. According to their website, they were doing pretty well. We scoured the blog posts and news features, but didn’t find anything specific about Peter. We even tried a website that used information from electoral rolls and directory enquiries, but that came up empty.

But maybe this was enough, for a Ranger on the hunt?

I sent Sam a brief message with a photo of the birth certificate, and he sent me back a selfie of him braced in the branches of an enormous oak tree gripping a chainsaw, with the caption:

Bit busy will call later.

‘I don’t think it’s safe to be sending messages when you’re up a tree.’ Joan frowned. ‘Especially not when you’re holding a massive saw.’

I was inclined to agree. I kept the photo anyway.

The next day – Tuesday – just before six, when I was in that now-familiar post-hospital standing-in-front-of-the-fridge-and-wondering-what-to-eat time of day, Sam arrived.

‘I was supposed to prepare you dinner, but thought Joan would prefer me to spend the time searching instead, so I got this.’