‘We’re just waiting for the results from some swabs we took when Lumin first arrived,’ Detective Matthews explains.

‘Swabs?’ Amber asks.

The detective nods. ‘From the head wound and beneath her fingernails. We want to be sure she wasn’t hurt on purpose.’

‘Do you think she was?’ Amber asks, shivering slightly at the thought. ‘It’s horrible to think someone might have deliberately hurt her.’

‘We just don’t know,’ Detective King says. ‘It’s a rather perplexing case.’

‘I bet it is. What are the plans for her now?’

‘She’ll need to stay in hospital to be observed,’ Detective Matthews says. ‘Hopefully we’ll find out where she belongs very soon.’

‘And what if you don’t?’ Amber asks.

‘There will come a point when she’ll need to move on from hospital,’ Detective King says with a sigh. ‘I suppose she’ll be under state supervision.’

‘So she’ll disappear into the system?’ Amber asks.

‘Not necessarily,’ Detective Matthews says. ‘It’s a tough one as we’re not entirely sure of her age. She could be over eighteen, but then she could just as easily be under sixteen.’

‘Can’t the doctor do more tests?’ Amber asks.

‘There aren’t any tests to determine someone’s exact age,’ Detective King replies.

‘Either way, she’ll just be given support until she finds her feet. But hopefully it won’t come to that.’ Detective Matthews puts her hand on Amber’s shoulder. ‘You’re being great with her. If she was hurt, having you around when she remembers will help.’

‘You’re making it sound like you think she was hurt by someone?’ Amber says.

She catches the two detectives exchanging a look. But then Detective Matthews quickly smiles. ‘Let’s see what the results say, shall we?’

As they all stand, Amber peers out towards Lumin’s cubicle. Could she have really been hurt on purpose? And if so, who did it … and why?

Chapter Seven

Gwyneth

Audhild Loch

24 December 1989

Pine martens rely heavily on rowan berries as the colder months descend. Their scats are distributed wildly and give a good indication where these elusive creatures have been.

I sat by the huge roaring fire in the McCluskys’ living room, the contents of my third glass of mulled wine swirling through me, flushing my cheeks. I’d been assigned the large ‘grandad’ chair as Cole referred to it, red and black tweed and big enough for me to curl my feet up on. The rest of the family were tucked up on the sofas, some under vast woolly blankets, except for Cole, who sat more formally on another ornate armchair across from me. Dylan’s older sister Alison was strumming a tune on a guitar as his younger sister Heather sang a beautiful version of ‘The First Noel’ in a soulful worn-in voice. Their father watched them, smiling contentedly with his dogs sprawled at his feet.