She gets to her knees and reaches for a photograph that’s been thrown near the fireplace, the one of her mother and the mysterious Daphne Hartall, who might really be Sheila Watts, standing in the back garden. It looks cold – they’re wrapped up in scarves and coats, their smiles broad. She wonders who took the photo. Had she taken it?

‘What am I missing?’ she says, under her breath, to the two women in the photograph. ‘What did you do?’

36

Lorna

LORNA’S AWAKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. SHE’D fallen asleep on the sofa, still in her tweed jacket, Saffy’s Puffa coat acting as a duvet, the photograph of Daphne and her mother pressing against her cheek.

Sunshine spills into the living room through the badly fitted curtains, spooling onto the floor and highlighting the dust motes that float in the air. Lorna glances at the watch on her wrist. It’s gone nine. She sits up and stretches. Every muscle in her body aches. There is no movement from upstairs. She doesn’t want to wake them. They need the sleep. She’s thankful it’s a Saturday and they don’t have to get up for work. Her heart plummets when she notices the mess on the floor, and everything that happened yesterday comes rushing back. This won’t do. She needs to take action.

She gets up and pads into the kitchen. The slate tiles are freezing under her bare feet. She’s relieved to see the chair is still in place, tucked under the door handle.

Lorna opens the fridge. There’s no milk. She’ll walk down to the village and get in some supplies. That’s one thing she can do. For Saffy and Tom. Practical things to take the burden off them.

Lorna throws on fresh clothes, then grabs her bag and quietly lets herself out of the cottage. As she does so she meets the postman, an elderly man in Royal Mail’s regulation shorts. He smiles kindly at her as he hands her a padded envelope. Her phone. She’s been lost without it. She takes it with thanks, turning it on. There’s hardly any charge left. She notices ten missed calls from Saffy. She shoves it into her bag.