The frost had melted in the side of the garden where the sun had reached, although the fallen leaves blown up against the feet of the hedges were crisp and hemmed in white. The trunks of the old cider apple trees were patterned with lichen like layers of lace, and mistletoe hung from the crooks of leafless branches. Blackbirds searched amongst the debris on the grass for hidden apples on which to feast, tossing leaves aside with their beaks. The robin was guarding the feeder; tits twittered in their family group in the hedge, snowdrops bobbing at its feet. Crocuses were pointing their sharp little leaves through the lawn and the daffodils were coming.

Soon it would be spring. Spring had been Alice’s second favourite time of year, next to summer.

Marnie whistled to the dogs. She put Mister back in the stables and took the other two inside; scattered kibble for them to seek out while she warmed herself by the stove. She drank another mug of coffee and prepared toast, butter and honey, an apple cut into slices, the same snack her mother used to enjoy. As a child the taste of honey had disgusted Marnie, but after her mother died, and there was no breakfast cereal left in the larder cupboard, she took to eating honey and soon she began to crave the stuff to the point that she would take the pot up to her bedroom and suck it from her finger. When the jar was empty, she stole a replacement from the park stores. She’d been obsessed with the stuff, and this was what had brought her to Alice.

It was the second week of the school holidays. Ten-year-old Marnie had been riding an imaginary horse around the holiday park, jumping it over ditches, galloping up the long grass verges, bravely staying in the saddle when the horse, which was easily spooked, reared and shied, when she spotted a distinctive jar on the table outside Caravan 49, together with a glass containing the dregs of orange juice, a side plate, an apple core and a knife. Sparrows were on the table pecking at toast crumbs on the plate. Marnie had a sudden feeling that her mother might be inside the caravan, that it was where she’d been hiding for these last months since everybody believed she had died. Her heart began to pound. What if Denise had been here all along? What if she’d left the honey jar on the table as a signal to Marnie?