She opened up her map, one fold at a time, and spread it out on the table. On top of the teapot too – the Peak District had a large lump in it.

‘I could just look it up on—’ Piotr had his phone out already.

‘No – we need to stay here,’ interrupted Eva. ‘We have to expose FullLife, tell people the truth.’

‘What truth?’ Holly said.

‘That they’re lying. That they’re covering something up.’

Holly straightened her back. ‘It would be best to know what, don’t you think?’

‘But how—’

‘Freida will tell us,’ Holly said firmly.

She looked from Eva to Piotr, who was sitting in the deep, well-worn armchair.

‘You think it’s been there from the start?’ he said. ‘A fault with the pouches, even back when Freida was involved?’

‘I think it was why she left.’

‘But …’ Eva’s voice trailed off.

‘She’s somewhere remote,’ Piotr said, leaning forward now to look at the map on the table.

‘And on the coast,’ Holly said. ‘She once mentioned a peninsula.’

‘Scotland,’ said Eva. ‘I heard some people talking, when I was … some friends of my mum. One of them had met her, in Scotland.’

‘OK.’ Holly stretched out with a slight groan and pulled the map closer. ‘See why a map’s useful?’ She spread her hands over the Highlands. ‘Overview.’ Then she reached into her bag and took out a faded postcard. It had been handmade – there was no location on the back, no county to help them. But there was the striking picture on the front. A tall, skinny, red-and-white-striped lighthouse. It was surrounded by nothing but thick grey cloud and wild sea, and that single beam of light, pulsing out to the right of the image.

Holly placed it on the map, somewhere between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Piotr ran his hands through his hair.

Eva was frowning. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘Eva?’ Piotr leaned forward.

‘I’ve been there before,’ Eva said. ‘I’ve been there with my mum.’

The jolt of the memory was so unexpected, so vivid, that it made her eyes sting. She was a child again, a girl of six or seven, running out to the black rocks that zigzagged through the sweet scent of heather and the prickly warning of yellow-flowering gorse, and her mum was young, beautiful, chasing her, shell-patterned flip-flops clutched in her hand so she could race barefoot through the bouncy moss of the peninsula.