A tiredness like I haven’t known in a long time hits. I let Stuart lead me upstairs by the hand and help me lie down on the bed before I give in to the blackness.

When I awaken, it’s still dark. I am alone in bed.

Twenty-Six

Deborah is on holiday in the Lake District until Saturday.

I left her a voice mail, insisting that I needed to speak to her urgently, so she called me back. As soon as she ascertained that the children were all right, she asked me to leave her in peace until she returned.

“I need this break,” she says. “The pain is so raw.”

I feel terrible. Perhaps she has felt pushed out; her grandchildren are all she has left of Nina. I’ll try harder to heal the rift, to ensure she’s more involved in their day-to-day lives.

I manage to fit in some work, taking pictures of a local horror author who needs some up-to-date promotional photos. She wants them shot in the woods. I suggest that we use the abandoned barn in our garden as a backdrop, too. It’s fun working again. It alleviates the stress and surreality of the previous week.

I can’t just sit around waiting for Deborah, though. I must find other ways to keep occupied. I contact Greg through his private investigator website, using an email address under the name of Samantha Brown, and book an appointment. I receive an automatic response that says that I need to arrange a telephone conversation first to “discuss my requirements and see if his methods could work for me.” Sounds ominous rather than hopeful. I compose an email lie, something along the lines of not wanting my partner (who works from home) to overhear our conversation.

When he emails back, we arrange to meet in two days’ time.

If I didn’t know Greg, I’m not sure how I’d feel about meeting him alone, in an anonymous place, but the building where he is based is staffed by several receptionists and gives a good overall appearance of being safe. The signs for multiple businesses adorn the walls, including advertisements for temporary office spaces. It’s busy. All the same, I sign in under the same fake name I used to book the appointment.

I wait.

At four minutes past my appointment, I remember that Greg is rarely on time.

A phone rings in reception. The woman who answers it looks at me as she puts it back down.

“Upstairs, second floor.”

“Thanks.”

As I walk up, I don’t feel quite so sure of myself and my online detecting.

His office is next door to the ladies’ toilets.

I take a deep breath and walk into his office as confidently as I can. He rises from behind a desk littered with pens, mugs and paperwork, ready to greet me—his client. He stares at me as though it’s all a mistake.

“Hi, Greg.”

An element of surprise can’t do any harm.

He does his very best to hide his shock by acting like he was half expecting me.