‘No problem. Here.’ He gave her a business card with ‘Rob’s Cabs’ on it. ‘In case you need to come back.’

She nodded, and then he was gone. She listened to the car speed away from the distant junction, then listened again. Nothing. Nothing except a persistent bird chirruping. Somewhere far off she thought she could hear a lawnmower, but it suddenly stopped, and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

A sign – dusty with green mildew – a few metres from where she stood told her she was in Hawthorne Lane. Large oaks gripped the verge, their still-small leaves dicing up the weak sunlight as it hit the road. Kate pulled her old leather jacket tighter and started to walk. The houses were tucked back from the edge of the road down daffodil-lined driveways; the happy yellow tops of the flowers head-banged in the breeze. She could smell the warm pleasant scent of an open fire from a nearby home. The first house was number five – something that struck her as odd. Where were numbers one to four? She carried on further; each house she passed was different from the previous one, each individual and characterful. But they were all old with a solidity that exuded comfort and security. They seemed wise, if houses could be considered as such, having laid their sturdy mortared arms around centuries of families.

Number twelve was particularly charming – a reddish-bricked detached house at the end of a gravel drive. A bright-green front lawn was the backdrop for a tree bursting with delicate pink-and-white blossom. Yellow painted shutters lay flat against the brickwork. This was it. Kate instinctively sighed. It was a place anyone would want to live in. As did Grace and Nick Stamp – or at least it was their names on the document she’d found. Were they still there? Did they know Becky? It was now or never, Kate decided, and she walked up to the glossy black front door. Rang the bell. There was no turning back now. Not unless she made a run for it. The silliness of this made her smile and it was still on her face as the door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties with short, pixie-like blonde hair. Kate instantly knew her visit was unwelcome, an inconvenience. The woman looked harassed.

‘Yes?’ she said brusquely.

‘Hi. I’m . . . I was wondering if you might be Grace Stamp?’

‘Yes,’ the woman said again, and then while Kate hesitated, ‘what do you want?’

‘Um . . . I was wondering . . .’ started Kate again, ‘do you by any chance know a young woman called Becky Ellis?’

Grace frowned, partly suspicious, partly just thinking, then said: ‘The journalist?’

Kate smiled, a mix of joy, relief. A connection.

‘Who are you? Are you from the same paper?’

Kate was about to correct Grace when a small boy appeared at her hip. He was bald. Her smiled slipped.

‘Because if you are, you can forget it. Yes, I do know Becky, but I haven’t seen her for over a year. I’m not in the mood for time-wasters, for being picked up and dropped whenever it suits you. In fact, you can leave right now,’ she added wearily and started to close the door.