‘I know,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t call if I wasn’t desperate. I need to talk about what happened. I thought I could live with what we did, but I can’t. I just can’t. I think we need to put it right, I want to go to the police.’

‘No! No, Beth.’ There was a long silence, until finally it came. ‘All right I’ll meet you. But not here. You can’t come here. Give me your address.’

Surreal to see that face again, that familiar figure sitting at my kitchen table. Within minutes I was crying again, my words spilling out of me. I talked about everything – about what we did, how the guilt had never left me. I talked about Hannah, my marriage, how I felt I was losing my mind. I realized how desperate I’d been to have someone to confide in, how much I’d missed having a friend. ‘What do you think I should do?’ I asked desperately, when I’d finally run out of words.

But those eyes remained cold as they looked back at me. ‘If you tell the police, we will lose everything. You will lose everything. Don’t you understand that? What good can come from dragging it all up now?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know!’ I saw that it was useless. Nobody could help me; there was nothing to be done. I bowed my head and cried and cried. I didn’t even look up when I heard the chair scraping back, the front door opening and closing once more. It was over. It had all been for nothing.

It was a while before I got to my feet. I made myself take long slow breaths. Toby would be waking from his nap soon and I needed to pull myself together. Slowly I went to the sink and washed my face, then I made myself walk towards the stairs, intending to go up to check on my son, trying to plaster on the necessary smile. I was suddenly desperate to see him, to feel his little body, smell his delicious scent. As I passed the telephone in the hall I replaced the receiver in its cradle – I’d taken it off so we wouldn’t be disturbed – and almost as soon as I withdrew my hand it began to ring.

I picked it up. ‘Hello?’

‘This is West Elms Primary,’ the briskly efficient voice said. ‘Is Hannah with you, Mrs Jennings?’

‘Hannah?’ I asked in confusion. ‘No. Why would she be with … isn’t she at school?’

‘I’m afraid she’s run away again. She must have slipped out of the upper school’s gate after lunch. When we couldn’t reach you, we called the police. I believe they’re on their way to see you now.’

‘But …’ I felt the colour drain from my face. ‘How long has she been gone?’