On the day Denise had died, she’d put her locket under Marnie’s pillow. How had she known to put it there on that particular day? Marnie once asked Mrs deVillars this very question, during one of their sign language lessons, and Mrs deVillars, looking very sad, had replied: ‘Maybe she could feel that her heart was growing weaker.’

Marnie must have looked doubtful. ‘It happens a lot,’ Mrs deVillars assured her. ‘Sensitive people often know when their time is up.’

Mrs deVillars had been spending a good deal of time with Angharad Jones.

Marnie leaned back against the wall in her father’s bedroom. Mister stood beside her, drooling and looking concerned.

A little voice inside Marnie’s head said: ‘All you have to do is read the article.’

But Marnie wouldn’t. It was ridiculous even to consider that Denise might have taken an overdose; crazy. Why would she have done such a thing?

No, she had hidden the locket beneath Marnie’s pillow and then gone to the main bedroom alone for a little lie-down. Denise often took an afternoon nap. The only thing that was different this time was that her heart had stopped beating while she was sleeping.

Marnie closed her eyes, pressed the palms of her hands over her face.

She remembered her father’s face when he was fetched from work that afternoon, he still in his overalls, grease on his hands; his expression frozen in shock. Angharad had come bustling over from the holiday park. She’d put her arms round Marnie – ‘Come on now, sweetheart, you come with me.’ Mr deVillars stood at the side of the road watching as the paramedics loaded the trolley into the ambulance. A child was screaming. It was her, Marnie. She’d been screaming: ‘Mummy Mummy Mummy Mummy Mummy!’ Angharad held her tight.

‘She’s going to be fine, darlin’, shush now, she’s going to be fine.’

Marnie felt dizzy. She blinked and saw her mother’s face in her mind’s eye as clearly as if Denise was in the room with her. It was the day before her death. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen of the caretaker’s cottage, staring at the pictures in the locket that she would, the next morning, hide under Marnie’s pillow.

Marnie had come in from outside. She remembered that she was cold and that Denise had been so lost in thought that she’d seemed surprised to see her.

‘Hello,’ Marnie said, putting down the plastic carrier bag she was carrying, going to her mother, putting her arms round her waist.

‘Hi.’ Denise kissed the top of Marnie’s head. ‘What’ve you got there?’

‘A present.’

‘For me?’

‘Yep.’

Marnie had heaved the bag onto the table. It sagged as it lay down.

Denise peered into the bag, then she started back in disgust. ‘Oh God! What is it?’