Yes, I was Jean Burdon for nearly thirty horrifying years. And, yes, I couldn’t wait to escape her, to become Sheila Watts. I left prison, rehabilitated and armed with a new identity at the age of twenty-eight. And I tried to turn over a new leaf. I really, really did. I kept away from other people, tried not to form relationships or attachments, tried to remember all the things my psychologist had warned me about. And it worked for a while. I moved to Broadstairs, in Kent, and lived there quite happily for a number of years. But then that journalist started sniffing around – had somehow worked out who I really was. And I could have told the truth to my probation officer and they would have rehoused me, given me another identity, but I found that faking my death and taking Alan’s sister’s identity to be the much simpler option. That way nobody would know who I was, not the prison service or the probation officers. I’d finally be free. Finally be the person I’d always wanted to be – fiercely loyal, free-spirited, feminist, don’t-take-any-shit Daphne Hartall.

So I moved to the West Country, first Cornwall, then Devon, and eventually to a little village called Beggars Nook.

And it was there that I made my biggest mistake and broke all my promises to myself.

I not only fell in love with Rose but with her daughter, Lolly.

50

Lorna

LORNA’S HAND IS SHAKING AS SHE HOLDS THE MUG. SHE’S drunk so much caffeine these last ten days she feels like she’s swimming in it.

Sitting opposite her on the sofa, next to Saffy, DS Barnes is wearing an earnest expression as he hunches over his notebook. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ says Lorna. ‘We think the body you found belongs to Rose Grey. My . . .’ She swallows. ‘My real mother.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ says DS Barnes, looking up at Lorna, his bright blue eyes full of sympathy.

‘I . . . Thank you.’ She’s not sure what he’s sorry for. The fact that it seems like the woman she’s always thought of as her mother is a murderer, after all. Or for the fact her real mother is probably dead.

Saffy has hardly said a word. She’s sitting with her hands in her lap, her face pinched, her dark eyebrows knitted together in worry. Another blow for Saffy, thinks Lorna, with regret. How much more can she take?

‘Rose . . . Daphne . . . she could still be innocent, you know. She might not have killed the real Rose Grey, if it is indeed Rose’s body that was found,’ he says. ‘That still could have been Victor Carmichael, and it’s something we’ll be looking into, rest assured.’

‘But then why steal her identity?’ asks Lorna.

‘It might have been the opportunity she needed to keep you safe. If Victor is your father and she was scared of him for some reason . . .’