I find a scrap of paper and write out the months, counting back. The baby would have been conceived in the autumn of 2000, so it fits. The family would still have been living in London then, the restaurant about to open, Tim stressing about investors, trying to keep up a confident front, realizing that this was his last chance of success, feeling vulnerable about middle age, looking for something, or someone, to make him feel young again. Anna would have felt so alone; her parents drowning in grief for Izzy, her brothers too young to be of any help, her friends unable to understand, Nick as good as gone, and anyway she had thoroughly alienated him on that holiday.

Did she come to this part of London to settle old scores? Did she threaten to expose Tim, encouraged by women coming forward in the media with tales of historic rape and assault by seemingly respectable men? Or did she come to find the Ritchies because she hadn’t got either of them out of her system? Whatever the truth, Nick vanished on Saturday, 14 April, forty-eight hours after Anna confronted him. Day Zero.

I pick Toffee up and hug him, pressing my cheek into his soft fur. He twists his head round and licks me.

I smarten myself up for my appointment, take Toffee and let myself out into a blessedly quiet street. One knock-on effect of Anna’s attack is that the press have lost interest in me, a young mother being left for dead on the Common weighing more in the balance than a thirty-four-year-old missing man. That may change of course, when they spot the connection, but for the moment I’m just grateful to be left alone.

I didn’t think I was up to it, but in fact getting away from the area is exactly what I need. I feel a burst of energy as I put the Common behind me and ride towards Chelsea. The house I visit isn’t Rupert’s yet, but he’s interested. He wants to know what I think, whether it has potential.

Rupert is standing outside the property, looking up at the facade with the agent, a pretty blonde woman in a bright pink jacket. I park my bike between a Porsche Cayenne and an Audi, remove my helmet and quickly run my fingers through my hair.

‘You look shattered,’ Rupert tells me, as he kisses my cheek. ‘Are you OK?’

My boss is in his mid-forties, tall and broad, with a florid complexion and sandy hair. I’ve never seen him out of a suit.

‘I’m fine.’ I shake hands with the agent, taking pride in my professionalism. No one would have a clue about the turmoil I’m going through. She walks up the steps, holds open the door and we go in.

‘No word then?’ Rupert murmurs as we inspect the front room.

‘No.’