What would happen to her if her true identity ever became public knowledge? She’d be vilified by vigilantes. Her new identity after leaving prison had been Sheila Watts. But she’d shed that skin the day she ‘drowned’ herself so now there were no probation officers keeping tabs, no officials making sure she didn’t kill again. Not that I thought she would. I trusted her. After all, we were both killers now. And she had been an innocent, a child, neglected, abused, lashing out. I should have known better at the age of thirty-six.

No, if anything, Daphne had a hold over me. She could literally direct the police straight to the body.

But I assured myself that it was worth it because our love was the real thing: it was raw and true and for ever. That it would never come to the stage when either of us had to use our knowledge as a kind of emotional blackmail to make the other stay. Daphne wasn’t manipulative. She didn’t play games. I didn’t have to worry.

Daphne wasn’t like Victor.

At least, that was what I told myself then.

It was a beautiful morning in early autumn when the trees were just beginning to shed their leaves. You loved kicking through them on your way to playschool; the village looked so pretty, surrounded by red, gold and brown. It was brisk outside but sunny, and after I dropped you off I decided to walk the longer way home through the woods. It was peaceful, the sun slanting through the trees, and as I dug my hands into the pockets of my sheepskin coat I felt awash with happiness. As I rounded the corner on the path that led to the back of the cottage I noticed someone standing in our garden, by the stone wall that separated it from the woods. I stopped, hiding behind a thick tree trunk. It was Daphne. And she wasn’t alone. She was with a man. My heart fluttered, my stomach turning over. Who was it this time? Not another journalist intent on finding out Daphne’s true identity?

I wondered if it was Sean, one of the farm hands. I’d never met him but Daphne had become quite pally with him at work, by all accounts. It sounded like he gave her things – spare eggs, the odd tin of paint, a pint of milk. I hoped he wasn’t taking these things illegally but Daphne said he was ‘all right’, which, from her, was quite high praise. It did cross my mind that he might fancy her, but I trusted her. I knew she loved me.

But as I peered closer I could see it was Joel.