Chloe holds her phone inside her pocket as she walks, the willow at the top of the lane appearing in no time. She steps through the fronds as she has so many times now. Often it feels as if they mark a curtain between two worlds. She takes the phone out of her pocket and dials Park House. She’s relieved when the answerphone picks up. She knows the routine well enough by now, when the overstretched and under-funded care staff are too busy to serve breakfast and answer the phone.

‘Welcome to Park House,’ the automated voice starts.

Chloe leaves a cheery yet brief message. She’s missed a couple of calls from Park House recently but in every voicemail they’d said how they were sorry to call her during work, which had made Chloe feel better about not being able to get back to them straight away. They know she’s busy. She looks back at the house, though of course it’s not visible from here. In a way she is still working – because she still hasn’t found Angie.

Back at the house, Maureen is washing up in the kitchen.

Chloe puts a celebrity magazine on the worktop between them.

‘I thought you might like this,’ she says.

Maureen glances back, her hands pushed deep in yellow gloves. ‘Oh Angie, you . . .’ Her voice trails off.

The two women look at each other quickly, realizing the mistake. Soapsuds pop quietly in the sink between them.

‘Chloe, I’m so sor—’ Maureen starts.

‘It’s OK,’ Chloe says quickly.

It is OK. Really it is.

Maureen looks down into the washing-up bowl and shakes her head as Chloe tries to busy herself rearranging the condiments on the table.

‘It’s not . . . I shouldn’t . . . it’s just sometimes these days I get confused,’ Maureen says. ‘It’s just having you here, it reminds me . . . you understand, don’t you?’

Chloe nods. She does understand.

‘Patrick thinks I’m going mad, he says . . . he says . . .’ She lifts a soapy glove from the bowl to waft away a thought. When she looks up at Chloe her eyes are teary.

Chloe swallows. ‘It’s actually quite warm outside, why don’t we go for a walk? I haven’t seen much of the area and, you know, with Patrick out all day, perhaps some fresh air would do you good?’

Maureen nods, pulling a tissue from her sleeve.

TWENTY-NINE

They walk along those straight Fen roads, the camber often pulling Chloe away from Maureen and into the verge. She picks up her pace to meet her back in the middle of road as Maureen points out the differences between the fields sown with sugar beet and those with barley. As they walk, Maureen paints a picture of the Fens in the summer, hares that box among the birds at dusk and dawn.

‘You make it sound so beautiful out here,’ Chloe says. ‘When I arrived here it seemed so bleak.’