The sun’s just beginning to filter through the lowered blinds and as I pull them up, I’m met with undulating meadows that roll as far as the eye can see. And for a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the view, revel in it even, as I have done every morning since moving here. Though today, for the first time, it is a little harder to garner gratitude for a new dawn when I’m not entirely sure what it will bring.

Desperate for a coffee to mask the bad taste Jacob’s lies have left in my mouth, I head back up to the house.

I’m daydreaming, watching the swirling coffee granules dissolve in my mug, when the doorbell rings. I check the time on the oven; it’s not yet nine and I immediately panic that it’s someone coming to get Leon because there’s a problem on site.

Walking down the hall, I can see two shadowy figures on the other side of the stained-glass panels in the front door, their outlines aglow with the sun behind them. I pull my dressing gown tighter around me, in need of comforting reassurance.

‘Naomi Chandler?’ asks the woman, her attempt at a smile unable to belie the fact that they’re obviously here on official business. Just their stance and weathered expressions tell me they’re police officers.

I offer a stiff smile, but it’s almost as if my face has forgotten how to be normal.

‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘How can I help you?

‘I’m Detective Inspector Robson,’ she says. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Harris.’

They make a show of presenting their IDs but my brain is racing so far ahead that it could have been their library cards.

‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Michael Talbot,’ says the man, looking like the classic English TV detective with his Barbour-esque jacket and navy chinos.

‘Oh, I don’t know if I can help you,’ I say. ‘Is he a local man?’

They look at each other. ‘May we come in?’ says the woman.

I go to stand aside but feel suddenly vulnerable, as if I’m inviting a pair of serial killers into the house. I’m almost too embarrassed to question their status. I wonder which is the lesser of two evils.

As if sensing my reticence, the woman offers up her ID again and I squint to read the small writing.

I lead them through to the front room and invite them to take a seat, but they say they’d prefer to stand.

‘So,’ I offer, when they’re not forthcoming. ‘How can I help?’

‘As I said, we’re looking into the disappearance of Michael Talbot,’ says the man. ‘Do you know him?’

My brow furrows. ‘No,’ I say more abruptly than I intended.

They give each other a conspiratorial glance again.

‘Are you sure about that?’