Her lips pressed together in a straight line. That ever-ready smile slipped again, and she put her hand on mine and patted my fingers.

‘No, dear. There’s nobody else applying for the scholarship.’

I tried to hide the joy in my sharp inhalation. Miss Hayle had kicked Rebecca off the list! Something fluttered inside me. Guilt? Or a sense of accomplishment? I couldn’t decide, and I flicked the emotion away.

I deserved this. I needed this.

I dropped my guard; I was smiling as I let Miss Hayle out. Then Carl’s dirty old van pulled up.

‘I’ll see you later, Miss Hayle,’ I said hurriedly, practically pushing her down the path.

Too late, too slow. Carl was there, grinning, showing his gaping black hole of a heroin-ruined mouth.

‘She’s a good girl, isn’t she?’ he leered, putting his arm around my shoulder. I fought against the urge to squirm away, felt my face hot and red, out of keeping with the winter air.

‘This is my mother’s friend,’ I rasped, my voice disintegrating at Carl’s touch. ‘He doesn’t live here, though.’

It was a lie – he was here more than he wasn’t – but I knew we’d had to provide household income for the scholarship. I glanced at him as I shrugged him off me. Not that it mattered; his bank statements were probably in worse shape than my mother’s.

‘Can’t believe you’re taking her away from us.’ Carl shook his head sadly. ‘Don’t know what her mother and me will do without her.’

‘Miss Hayle was just leaving,’ I said desperately.

‘Ok-aaay.’ She nodded, put her hand out to shake Carl’s.

I inserted myself between them and led her to her car.

‘Thank you,’ I said. My voice shook, was still hoarse.

She smiled over my shoulder. ‘You’ve got a nice family,’ she said as she got into her car.

I watched as she drove away and thought about her words. You’ve got a nice family.

It really was easy to hide the rot.

Chapter 20

Alone at the bank of computers, Paula read the article again, slowly this time. It didn’t help; phrases and words jumped out at her – bruises on his face… fingerprint marks… airways blocked – and with every paragraph, she found her eyes wandering back to the photo.

She zoomed in, but it only served to make the image blurrier. She zoomed out again, looked at it in its normal composition. The woman the police were hunting was Anna, she was sure of it. That beret, the tailored coat, the stance of the figure in the picture. Caution pricked at her: these were not unusual items, the clothing was not enough to pin it on her.