‘No.’ He sits beside her, takes her hand, and squeezes it within his own. ‘But Alice, if there was a puppet, how did it get here … Where’s it gone?’

‘It was here. It really was.’ A tear zigzags down her cheek, and he holds her close to him for some time.

Once she is calmer, he rises to his feet. ‘We need to go home,’ he says. ‘I’m sure Christine will know who we can call. Let’s get changed and go back down.’

‘OK.’ She rises, pale and exhausted, her face wet from tears. ‘I need a tissue,’ she says, almost childlike, looking about her.

Within moments, she’s frantically looking under the bed. ‘My handbag,’ she cries. ‘It was here, but it’s gone. It has my phone in it. Oh God, Leon, what the hell is happening? I’m not sure I can take any more.’

Chapter 21

1988

Verity

Flynn House felt cold and musty after standing empty for seven years – a miserable place, though that was nothing new. Verity had thought she might renovate the place. Cover the past with fancy wallpaper and Dulux paint. She had enough money. But as she rattled around the house alone, the past crawled under her skin, and sucked the small amount of life she had left from her. It was as though Felix was watching, laughing from the grave.

She had hoped Hugh and Pippa might move into the big house with her, but her brother had insisted from the off that the two of them would live independently in the cottage on the island. ‘Pippa’s got great plans for the place,’ he’d said. Verity couldn’t help the anger that bubbled inside her. After all she’d done for him. She couldn’t stay there any longer, watching Hugh and Pippa’s love grow stronger. Her stomach knotted each time she saw them together, nausea rising at their happiness, rubbing like sandpaper against her own despair.

It was a month into their return that Verity packed her bags, and left Flynn House. She dropped a note through the cottage door for her brother, explaining how she intended to backpack around Europe. That she wouldn’t return for maybe a year.

She hoped the separation might free her mind of him, break the claustrophobic bond they had, because she knew, deep down, it was wrong to be so dependent on him for her own happiness. Time apart was what she needed. Maybe she would find someone – fall in love.

She’d booked a hostel in Paris to kick off her trip. She could afford better, but she wanted to mix with other young people, maybe make friends. She’d picked up brochures from Dunwold’s travel agents on the high street, chosen destinations. Cut out glossy photos of the Eiffel Tower, Cologne Cathedral, and Wieliczka Salt Mine, and slipped them inside the pages of her diary.