“You okay?” Anne hovers beside me in the doorway to the staffroom, a jug of orange squash in one hand, a pile of plastic beakers in the other. “Not nervous about the volunteer evening, are you?”

“God, no.” I manage a laugh. “Sorry, I was just thinking about those Jack Russell pups. They were absolutely caked in crap. I had to wash them twice to get them clean.”

“I know.” She shakes her head. “The breeders should be bloody strung up. Still” – she glances at the sea of nervous and excited faces in front of us – “at least you’ll be getting some help. Shame about Angharad leaving; she seemed lovely.”

I make a suitably positive sound, and Anne scurries off to set out the squash and plastic cups on the trestle table on the opposite side of the room. Green Fields doesn’t have the budget to add biscuits to the refreshment table.

“Okay.” I take a step into the centre of the room and clap my hands together. Seven expectant faces stare back at me. A man in a blue polo neck jumper on the left of the room sits up a little straighter in his seat. “First of all, welcome and thank you all so much for coming along this evening. As you know, Green Fields is run solely on donations and we couldn’t keep the place going without the help of our lovely volunteers. My name is Jane Hughes, and I’m responsible for looking after the dogs that come into Green Fields, but I’ve had experience of working in all the different areas of the sanctuary. I’d like to begin by giving you a little bit of history about Green Fields and …”

As I continue the welcome speech, I become aware that the left pocket of my grey work trousers is vibrating. My phone is turned to silent, but the eyes of several of the volunteers are trained on my pocket, so I have no choice but to pause.

“I’m sorry.” I reach into my pocket. “I’ll just turn this off, and then …”

“Al calling”, says the display.

“I’m so sorry.” I pull an apologetic face at my audience. “I really need to get this. Talk amongst yourselves and I’ll be right back.”

I slip out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me, and hold the phone to my ear.

“Al? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause, then a rustling sound, then the roar of traffic.

“Emma, what’s your address?” Al sounds breathless.

“Honeysuckle Cottage, Bude. I’ll text you my postcode. Why?”

“I’m in my car. I should get to you for about nine p.m. We need to talk. You were right. Daisy’s not dead.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you everything when I see you. Don’t tell the police. Promise me. Promise me you won’t contact them, Emma.”

“But—”

“Promise me, Emma. Please.”