The station welcomed her with the scent of fresh flowers and coffee. Beneath its gleaming canopy of glass and iron her spirits soared skywards as they always did towards the sunlit panes, and amidst the bustle of so many lives and so many journeys, she felt a sense of peace returning. This morning’s visit to the museum had been a disappointment. She had felt no connection, no recognition. She made her way upstairs to the statue of John Betjeman. It was a ritual that her dad had started with her; every time they were in the station, they would visit it and rub Betjeman’s rotund tummy for luck. Her dad had been an avid fan, not only of his poetry, but also of his work to preserve so many architectural treasures. St Pancras had been his favourite – the jewel in the crown, he called it. After its restoration, they used to come here just to marvel at its splendour. They sometimes had coffee and cakes and listened to the people playing the free pianos. Occasionally they would have a pint and a packet of crisps in The Betjeman pub, and on Billie’s last birthday before her dad died, they had had lunch in The Booking Office as a special treat. He could have told her here. Here in their special place, bolstered by Betjeman and a pint or two of bitter, he could have shared the secret that had been kept for so many years. But he had remained silent. Until after his death. Her mum would never have spoken of it – too afraid to fracture their perfect family. And it was this that broke Billie’s heart. Not the secret itself – shocking though it was – but the fact that her mum hadn’t trusted Billie’s love and loyalty enough to test it. That she could never now reassure her mum and dad that their family was as strong as it had always been, and that her love for them was unshakeable. But something had changed. Irrevocably. Inevitably now, there were questions to be asked even if the answers were never found. Her dad’s letter, forwarded by their solicitor just after the house had been sold, related only the bare facts.