I leave quickly and hesitate at the kerb, not knowing whether to keep walking. He could have gone off in any direction. He could have got into someone’s car and been driven away – someone he thought was a friend but who meant to harm him. Christ, I think, it must be money. What if he’s hiding a huge debt, or found himself in a situation he could see no way out of. Except one.

One thousand five hundred steps take me to the station. He either caught a train, or he walked further.

I walk east, past the school to the streets of smaller workers’ cottages beyond it. These are painted in pastel shades, though some of the newer arrivals have gone for a Farrow and Ball palette. In estate-agent speak the area is called the Garden Triangle because all the streets are named after flowers and shrubs: Primrose, Forsythia, Larkspur, Clover, Camomile. Anna Foreman’s house is in Camomile Avenue. Maybe she did see him on Thursday evening. She might have recognized Toffee tied up outside the minimart and gone up to pet him. Everyone likes my dog – he’s a great one for offering a paw – then Nick came out and she introduced herself. Maybe she saw something.

Anna’s house is pale pink with cracked tessellated tiles leading to an olive-green front door. Down this street the residents are amicably competitive about their tiny front gardens. There’s a rose showing signs of bursting into leaf, clambering up the wall. In June it will dance with white blooms tinged with yellow.

She doesn’t answer my knock. I try a couple more times and wait. I phone her landline and hear it echoing through the house. Her mobile rings out as well. I’m typing out a text, asking her if she wants to come round for a coffee, when she opens the door. She’s wearing painter’s overalls and her hair is tied back and partly covered by a scarf.

‘Grace,’ she says. ‘Hi.’

‘Are you busy? I thought I might pop in for a cuppa. I’m at a loose end.’

Anna’s surprise shows in the way her eyes narrow, and I realize how odd this looks. We’re not on dropping-in-unannounced terms, not like I am with Cassie and the others. I first met her at a coffee morning organized by Susanna to introduce her to the neighbourhood. I didn’t warm to her then, and, to my shame, I’ve avoided getting to know her in case I can’t shake her off. There’s something not quite right, a slyness about her. Her throat and cheeks are flushed pink, but if I’ve caught her at a bad time, I can’t help that.