‘I suppose there’s nothing more to do then, except go and check it out. Unless… we could just sit here and observe things for a while first, if you think that’s best? Or maybe knock on a neighbour’s door, ask whether number ten are known for being violent psychopaths.’

‘Oh my days! Will one of you just ring the doorbell before I’m forced to break my promise and go myself!’ Joan cried, and hearing the strain in her voice was enough to get me out of the car.

Sam caught up with me as I reached the driveway, placing a hand of reassurance on the small of my back as we walked the remaining few steps.

‘I know we said we’d scope it out, peek in the windows and whatever but I just need to get this over with,’ I whispered.

Sam nodded his agreement, before pressing the brass doorbell, one hand smoothing back his hair, another giving mine a quick squeeze of encouragement.

‘Hang on!’ My heart sank as Joan popped into the space where Sam’s hand had been. ‘I couldn’t wait. I’m sorry, I know I promised but it wasn’t my fault, my legs got up out of the car all by themselves.’

Before I could tell her off or take her back down the driveway out of sight, the door swung open. I instinctively grabbed Joan’s hand, bringing her closer into my side.

A woman stood there. Dyed ash-blonde hair. Greenish-grey eyes that I knew instantly. A face whose creases curved in arcs of sorrow, not laughter. She wore a Breton jersey with cropped, navy trousers. The butterfly dangling on a pendant around her neck caused hope to surge in my chest.

‘Carole Armitage-Brown?’ Sam asked.

‘Yes?’ she replied, forehead creasing in suspicion. We probably looked like members of a religious cult.

Joan sucked in a huge gasp of air, causing the frown to deepen.

Sam introduced himself, then got straight to it. ‘I’m here as an advocate for Diamanté Butterfly Brown. Or Joan, as she prefers to be called.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know this is going to be a huge shock, but we believe that Joan is your granddaughter. Leanne’s daughter.’

Every molecule in Carole Armitage-Brown’s body froze. She stood there, like a statue of solid misery, before eventually giving a sharp shake of her head and swinging the door shut as if we’d been a mere figment of her imagination, or the ghost of a forgotten nightmare.

Joan turned to me, her eyes pleading with me to do something. In that moment, as her thin fingers curled into mine, I suddenly realised what it was to be a parent, the weight of responsibility slamming into me.