“Don’t you dare.” She snatches her arm away from me, but the anger in her voice belies the fear in her eyes. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“I didn’t … I …” I take a step back, palms out, and that’s when I see it: a blue knitted hat on the back seat of her car. “It was you. You were the woman at the fair at Chloe’s school.”

Angharad shakes her head and reaches for the door handle. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. How did you know we were at the fair? You followed us, didn’t you? Then you waited until Chloe was alone and you approached her.” I snatch my phone out of my pocket. “I’m calling PC Barnham.”

“No.” Angharad reaches out a hand. “Don’t.”

“Then tell me who you are.”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Put the phone away.”

“Tell me who you are first.”

She takes a deep breath then exhales slowly. “My name is Angharad Maddox. I’m a journalist at the local paper. I saw your photo in The Post about six months ago, when we ran a feature on Green Fields’ fundraising, and I thought I recognised you. You’ve lost a bit of weight your hair’s a different cut and colour, but your face hasn’t changed much: you look virtually identical to the photo in the Daily Mail article from four years ago. I knew from digging around that you’ve always refused to talk to journalists, and wouldn’t talk to me if I approached you directly, so …” She shrugs.

“So you pretended to be a volunteer, you followed me, you talked to my boyfriend’s daughter, you stole a letter and you looked at private files on the work computer.”

“Woah!” She shakes her head. “I didn’t steal anything, Emma.”

“Yes, you did. You stole a letter addressed to me when you dropped off the cake – the letter you wrote to try and scare me into talking to you.”

She shakes her head again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. The letter arrived the day before you started. A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? I get a letter intended to freak me out, and then, all of a sudden, I’ve got a new volunteer who asks me all kinds of personal questions.”

“I didn’t send you anything, Emma.”

“No? So you didn’t set up a fake internet profile, either? You didn’t pretend to be Daisy?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Daisy your friend who disappeared in Nepal? Really?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”