Her eyes flit from one framed photograph to the next, but she feels nothing, like she is simply flicking through a magazine filled with models. Interesting how time makes strangers of us all, eventually.

She remembers then the reason she is here. She leaves the living room and takes the stairs, two at a time, hauling herself up by the handrail. She pauses on the landing, briefly glancing into Nan’s bedroom, the light falling on her fitted wardrobes and the mirror inset within them reflecting an empty bed. She imagines Nan still here, shuffling round on her own, no one here to keep her company, to sit beside her watching television, to get up and make her a cup of tea. No one to take away that sting of loneliness. She imagines Nan dying on her own in the very same bedroom. Things could have been so very different if it hadn’t been for Chloe.

Inside her own room, the curtains are drawn, her bed is unmade. Blu-Tack still clings to the wall in places, and in others, the corners of A4 paper hang clumsily. Chloe drops to her knees and starts feeling underneath her bed, pulling out the cuttings that she had left there, that she had taken time to hide just in case. They come out, a bunch in each hand, and she turns and leans her back against the bed frame. She discards the first two – they are stories from later on in the enquiry. She even discards the update interviews that Maureen and Patrick did over the years. It’s another story she’s looking for, and as she sieves through them, Maureen and Patrick’s faces fall on the bedroom carpet in a haphazard fashion. But then, finally, she finds it. The cutting is not on top of the pile in her hands, but the edge of it sticks out of the middle. She recognizes the photograph, even photocopied, even though so many pixels blur into one another; even with the blotches of newsprint, even with the age of the original, she recognizes it, because this photograph – this location – has been so vital to every single news story, every part of the investigation, that has followed since that day Angie disappeared. She is not mistaken.

She holds the cutting up. It’s in two pieces so she grasps one page in each hand and fits them together into a jigsaw that at one time might have offered hope. Because right in the middle of both pieces of paper is the photograph she remembers. The one of Maureen and Patrick, her hand held tightly inside his, her head resting on his shoulder, the long grass around them almost obscuring their bodies. And in the background, just over their shoulder, the unmistakable landmark that was the park in Ferry Meadows that Angie had disappeared from. She reads the picture caption.

Devastated: Parents Patrick and Maureen Kyle join the search for Angie.