I think about Lottie’s face when I told her I was moving out, the way she changed her phone number, the fact that she had left the country for a new life and not got in touch. Lottie hates me for what I did. If it was her I’ve just seen, then it’s further proof that our friendship is over. To be back in the UK and still not get in touch. That means something.

‘So, how about lunch in the village?’ says Georgie as we reach the high street. ‘Maybe even a sneaky bottle of Chablis for old times’ sake.’

It sounds heavenly and the old me would be there like a shot, ordering a plate of moules and spending the afternoon putting the world to rights, but the shock of seeing Lottie and then that horse springing up out of nowhere has shaken me. I think of Bains last night, his eyes boring into me, and suddenly it feels like everyone else is doing the same. Watching me. Judging me.

‘I’m sorry, Georgie, but the sun’s given me a headache,’ I say, putting my hand to my temple. ‘Do you mind if we go home?’

Georgie doesn’t object, though I know she really wanted to have lunch and relax. As we turn and head back across the common, she slips her hand in mine and gives it a reassuring squeeze, just as she used to when I was a kid. That small gesture brings tears to my eyes, though I tell Georgie it’s the sun and the onset of a migraine that is making them water. I don’t know whether she believes me, but she doesn’t press it, and when we get back to the house she busies herself getting me a glass of water and two painkillers.

Back in the bedroom I lie on the bed staring at the ceiling, my head full of Bains and Geoffrey. I need to know what is being said, how the news sites are reporting it. A flutter of panic courses through me as I imagine my name splashed across the internet. I sit up and take my phone from the bedside table then type the words ‘Geoffrey Rivers’ into the search engine.

RECLUSIVE CHILDREN’S AUTHOR FOUND DEAD: POLICE LAUNCH MURDER INQUIRY

No, I can’t face it. Instead I click on a piece from the Observer in which the great and the good of the literary world have offered tributes and condolences. ‘Geoffrey set the benchmark for those who followed …’ ‘A light has gone out today …’ ‘Geoffrey’s stories will live on in the hearts of so many children …’ One writer refers to Angus, the child protagonist of the Holly Maze House books, as ‘a modern-day Christopher Robin’.