She covered her mouth with her hands to contain the sobs.

‘Hey,’ said Gabriel, ‘it’s OK.’

Denise must have hoped that one day the two of them would find one another and put the two pictures together – the one given to Alice, the other in Marnie’s locket – and that they would understand the truth. The timing had been so awful! If Alice had only come a few weeks earlier then everything could have been so different!

Marnie shook with distress. Mister waddled over and put his head on her lap.

‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ Gabriel said.

He stood up and moved to the sink, glancing into the tin.

‘There’s another photograph.’

He passed it to Marnie. This picture was of a school cricket team, a line of young men seated outside a grand pavilion. Swathes of green countryside disappeared beyond, and in the distance was the sea. There was something familiar about this photograph too. Marnie thought she might have seen it before, somewhere else.

‘That’s the South Downs,’ Gabriel said, ‘outside Brighton.’

‘You know it?’ Marnie asked. Her speech muscles were out of practice and the sounds were barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for Gabriel to work out what she was attempting to say.

‘We had a job there a few years back. I used to go walking along the Downs. There’s a school there, a great boarding school, all towers and turrets. St Aubin’s. You see the pupils walking round the city in their uniforms. That picture was taken at the school.’

Marnie didn’t know what it meant. Gabriel filled a glass with water, passed it to Marnie.

On the table, face-up, her phone pinged.

‘Shall I look?’ Gabriel asked. Marnie nodded and he picked it up.

‘It’s a message from Zoe,’ he said. ‘It says: “Will you come to the Big House now, right away? It’s urgent.”’

61

Will was in the hall, struggling into his filthy jacket when he saw, through the glass in the top of the door, a light approaching downhill towards the cottage. He opened the door, assuming it was Marnie, and found himself face to face with John Morahan. John was holding a torch and brandishing a large stick.

John pushed the door wide with such force that it banged against the wall. Will stepped backwards, holding up his hands. ‘It’s me, John,’ he said, ‘Will Jones.’

John stood there, stooped and ferocious with bags beneath his eyes and lines on his face. Like the cottage, he seemed smaller than he used to be, although the threat of violence was large. The little terrier dog stood beside him, showing its teeth, hackles high on its back. The old man was so fired up that it took a moment for him to register that he was looking at Will. When he did, he slowly lowered the hand holding the stick.