‘It may not be him. People look alike sometimes.’ Leon’s tone is comforting. He reaches across the table, laces his fingers with hers. ‘In fact, I saw a bloke in Tesco once who was a dead ringer for Daniel Radcliffe. I came over all Harry Potter fanboy, but it wasn’t him.’ He pulls a fake sad face.

‘How do you know?’ She tries to play along. ‘It could have been.’

He shakes his head. ‘I asked him to sign my cornflakes.’

‘And?’ Her lips curl into a smile.

‘He signed the box Colin Crumpet. Plus, he had five kids in tow.’

She laughs, knowing he’s probably made up the story to lighten the mood. He pushes a straying hair from her cheek with his free hand. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ His humorous tone has vanished. ‘We can head back to Whitby if you want.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m fine,’ she says, though feels far from it. ‘You’re right, people look similar all the time.’

‘You might even enjoy the break. It might be good to spend some time together.’

‘Yes,’ she says, meaning it – relieved he’s here with her. ‘It will.’

Chapter 13

1979

Verity

‘You’re a very good girl, Verity Flynn.’ Verity placed her palm against the bathroom mirror, splayed her chubby fingers, and leant forward, closer to her reflection. ‘You are a very good girl, Verity Flynn.’

This was something she often did. Talked to her reflection. Told herself she was good, because nobody else was going to. Certainly not her father, or the stream of nannies he employed to take care of her and Hugh.

Felix Flynn had brought Verity and Hugh to Flynn House in 1970, aged two and three. Adopting the brother and sister as a gift for his bored wife and stage assistant, Ann Marie Flynn, who hadn’t wanted to ruin her exquisite body by carrying children of her own. It was amazing what you could buy if you had enough money and contacts.

Dolls, that’s what the children had been initially; dolls for Ann Marie to play with. Dolls she would hand to a nanny when she grew tired of them.

When Ann Marie died of an accidental overdose in 1972, the children became an inconvenience to Felix. Verity learnt early on to keep out of her father’s way. Hugh, on the other hand, was full of mischief as a young child. He got in Felix’s way, desperate for his father’s attention. But Felix had no time for the boy, would grit his teeth, clench his fists, intent on stamping out the bright light that shone inside Hugh, leaving him in darkness.

Tap, tap, tap.

Verity looked away from her twelve-year-old reflection, and up at the ceiling. Hugh was in the attic room again. Locked in the box. Felix would leave him up there for hours sometimes.