‘Look at me, Mum.’ She turned her mother’s head gently towards her. ‘You didn’t kill your father. You were eight. You didn’t kill him.’

She stabbed the page. ‘I did.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ She took a breath. ‘What you’ve written is normal. It’s what kids do . . . they think they caused everything.’

Her mother took a deep breath. ‘I did something that caused his death. I can almost remember.’

‘Mum, you need to listen to me.’

‘No, I need to take responsibility for my actions. I need to accept what I’ve done. Accept my blame in the failure of the relationship between my mother and me. What I did to her, to us.’

‘No.’ Lottie jumped to her feet. This was terrible. ‘Stop.’

‘Lottie, don’t try to smooth over this.’

‘I’m not.’ The truth would certainly destroy the peace that Gran and her mother had achieved.

‘You are.’ Her mother chewed her lip. ‘I appreciate it.’ She smiled at Lottie. ‘Thank you for trying . . . it means a great deal.’

Lottie could barely breathe.

‘I know it’s nearly too late, but I will go and apologise to my mother and then I need to contact the police.’

‘No, you can’t do that.’ Lottie looked at the dolls on the windowsill. The outer doll was faded and worn. The two dolls inside were bright and shiny. Gran had protected them. She had borne the guilt. Lottie swallowed. She had to choose.

Her mother walked to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to her.’

Lottie took a deep breath and said, ‘Stop, I know what happened.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘I remember. It’s time that I faced up to it.’

Lottie’s legs gave way and she leaned against the chest of drawers. ‘It was fifty-six years ago. You haven’t remembered for all that time, so how can you know what you recall at this moment is the truth? Memory is a tricky thing at best.’

She stared at her. ‘What do you know?’

Lottie took a deep breath. Would knowing her mother killed her father help? What would her mother do with the information? Contact the police? Gran was dying but Gramps . . .

Her mother tilted her head and said, ‘Thanks for trying to make this easier but I’ve read the diary and I’ve read in between the lines.’

‘Your father was a spy.’ Lottie winced as she said it.

She nodded. ‘He was a political attaché and he was bisexual.’

‘Yes.’ Lottie moved to the window and picked up the dolls.

‘But I was the one who leaked the information.’

Lottie turned. ‘You were a child.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ She grabbed the diary. ‘I was the source.’