I scroll back, trying to locate pictures of Bella as a baby. That will be the decider. If there are photos of her under the age of three taken with Kate, then maybe I’ll have to conclude that this has all been a terrible mistake on my part. But I get the feeling I won’t see those baby photos. I’m more and more convinced that this is my missing Holly berry. That’s what I used to call her – my Holly berry. Something close to rage sparks in my chest. But it’s the type of rage that has tears. I clench my fists and take a breath, scrolling on down through the photos. And wouldn’t you know it – Kate joined Facebook six years ago, when Bella was six years old. Holly was taken from me when she was two years and eight months. So where are those baby pictures? They’re not here. And I would be willing to bet they’re not anywhere, other than in my own photo album.

I stare at my phone screen, at this beautiful six-year-old child – the child who looks uncannily like my missing daughter. The child I never saw grow up.

I want to hurl the phone across the room in anger. Instead, I clutch my mobile to my chest, hands folded over the top of it, pressing the image on the screen closer to my heart as though I could rewind time to make her mine again. As though the collection of pixels is my flesh-and-blood daughter.

‘Rachel! Rach, I’m home!’

I lift my phone away from my chest, steal a last glance at my child and exit Facebook. ‘Hi, Matt. In here!’

The door opens and my boyfriend walks in, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand. I get to my feet and look at him quizzically. ‘Hello, it’s not an anniversary is it?’

‘Hi. No. It’s just, after what you told me yesterday, I wanted to get you something. I know flowers aren’t anything much – not compared to what you’ve been through – but…’ He tails off, his eyes full of sadness.

‘Oh, Matt, that’s just so thoughtful and lovely of you. Thank you!’

He lays them on the sofa and holds out his arms I step into them and kiss his warm lips, momentarily forgetting what I discovered on Facebook. We’re interrupted by the children, who come clattering down the stairs, calling out to their dad.

‘Hey, you two.’ Matt lets me go and pulls them into a bear hug.

‘Amy Morris came over after school today,’ Jess says. ‘She’s so cool. She’s moved here from London and now she’s my best friend.’

‘From London?’

‘Yeah. Like me.’

‘And me,’ Charlie says.

‘You weren’t born in London,’ Jess says.

‘Yes I was! Wasn’t I, Dad?’

‘No, buddy. Jess is right. You were born in Dorset, like me.’