It’s so loud it makes me jump and I whip my head around. A man is standing a few feet away. I recognize him as the one outside the house the other day, the one I’m sure followed me to Gran’s care home last week.

Heat rises to my face and my mouth goes dry. Snowy stops sniffing the tree trunk to stand next to me, his ears pricked forward.

The man has on a waxed jacket and thick boots. He looks like he should be on some posh estate with a hunting rifle in his hand. ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling.

I nod to him and continue walking.

‘Saffron, isn’t it?’

I stop. Who is he? Is he a journalist? I turn to him, trying to keep my voice even. ‘Look, if you’re a reporter I know nothing more about the bodies that were found in my garden. I’m as clueless about all this as you are. It happened way before my time.’

He holds up his hand. ‘I’m not press.’

‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say. I feel the first prickle of unease. The woods are deserted as far as I can tell and I’m sickeningly aware that I’m alone with this strange man.

‘Actually,’ he says, ‘the name’s Davies. I’m a private detective.’

‘A – a private detective?’ Why would a private detective be following me into the woods? Why didn’t he just knock at my door?

‘I wasn’t following you,’ he says, with a little chuckle as though he’s read my mind. ‘I thought it might be a bit too early to come calling so I decided a walk in the woods was in order. They’re so beautiful.’

I frown at him. ‘Um . . . who hired you?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’ He gazes around the woods as though this is just a casual conversation, one he isn’t particularly bothered about, but I can tell by the tension in his body it’s an act.

‘Right. Well, I know nothing, I’m afraid, so . . .’ I begin to walk off.

‘Wait!’ he calls, even though he doesn’t follow me. I stop and turn towards him. ‘It’s your grandmother I really need to speak to.’

‘My grandmother? Why?’

‘It’s . . . Well, it’s a personal matter.’

‘My grandmother is in a care home. She isn’t up to speaking to anybody.’

A shadow passes over his face, making him look less amenable. ‘Is she ill?’

‘She has dementia.’

He rubs his hand over his stubbly chin. ‘Oh. That makes things a lot more difficult. A lot more difficult indeed. You see, my client really needs some information from her.’ His tone is colder now, all pretence at friendliness gone.

My heart quickens. ‘What kind of information?’

‘About something that happened a long time ago.’

‘I see,’ I say, although I’m completely thrown.