The poor animal was exhausted. Will was cold and tired too. His clothes were filthy and wet. The flames in the fireplace flickered.

Beside it, the shelves that used to be full of books were empty.

Will remembered how Denise used to sit here, on this same sofa, her feet tucked beneath her, her face resting on the palm of her hand as she read, and how she would look up at Will when he barged into the cottage, clumsy in his apologies. ‘Sorry, it’s only me. John sent me back for his wrench.’

Why did John Morahan never fetch his own tools? Why did he always send Will?

From nowhere, a deep well of sadness rose inside Will and in the next instant a thought occurred to him.

He believed now that Denise Morahan was Alice’s mother, everything pointed to it.

What if John Morahan had been her father?

It was possible! John and Denise could have been young lovers and when she became pregnant perhaps their parents kept them apart but they stayed in touch and reconnected later.

Would Alice have known? Could she have known?

What if the special date that night hadn’t been a romantic date after all? What if Alice had arranged to meet John Morahan? The man was renowned for his temper. Something Alice said could have triggered a violent reaction from him. Of everyone, he was the best placed to hide the body in the funfair.

He’d said a travelling woman had fetched him when Will was outside the caravan, drunk. But Will didn’t remember a woman. What if John had been in the caravan all the time? What if John, who had originally helped give Will an alibi, was now telling people Will had hurt Alice to make sure suspicion didn’t turn towards him?

He was distracted by the dog which made a strange, gasping sound. It was barely breathing. Will tried to soothe the animal. It had a delicate, slender face, the shape of an arrowhead. The eyes were dark and tapered, like raindrops. It struggled for a moment, exhaled and collapsed, like a balloon deflating. This time Will couldn’t rouse it.

He had to do something. If he didn’t get help soon, the dog would die.

He searched through his stuff but couldn’t find the phone charger. In his haste to leave the guesthouse he must have forgotten to unplug it from the wall socket – besides there was no electricity here. He couldn’t call for help. What now?

The closest telephone would be at the Big House, over the road. There was nothing for it but to go and knock on the door and ask if he could use it.

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