He pointed the phone towards an old sign that read: ‘AMUSEMENTS’, a faded plastic representation of a laughing donkey wearing a straw hat. They certainly used to be big on anthropomorphism in Severn Sands. On a patch of disintegrating rubber matting were coin-operated children’s rides: a London bus, a giant crab waving its claws and a Noddy car. The rides were chipped and dirty, bolts rusting, litter about their footings, puddles in the holes in the disintegrating matting. The board beside the shuttered window of the kiosk that used to sell pop, hot dogs and candy floss was still there, weather-worn, its faded wording advertising ice-cream shells and bottled beer. Marnie used to work there sometimes, only for an hour or two here and there, while whichever adult was supposed to be in charge went off for a break. She’d stood in for Will during the Alice afternoons several times. She was a competent, clever little thing and Will could picture her clearly, wearing that band that Alice had given her on her head, looking more kempt than she’d looked since her mother’s death because Alice had taken charge of the child’s hair and clothing, framed by the square hatch of the kiosk, handing out ice lollies to the punters. She was only ten years old, and she had to stand on an upturned fruit box to see out of the hatch, but she’d managed the calculations; never put a foot wrong.

Ahead, Will could see the park’s old service area: the derelict launderette and the small shop that used to be known as the park stores, sinks where campers used to clean their barbecue equipment and a large, wooden pagoda-type construction marked ‘Clubhouse’. This was new – or new since Will was last there – larger and grander than its predecessor, where Angharad used to work. Two men in white paper suits and goggles were walking around that area, staring at the ground.

Will put his phone back in his pocket, turned round and walked back the other way.

He had almost reached the old entrance to the park when a police car pulled in, followed by an unmarked saloon. The media pressed forward, buzzing with excitement. Lights were lit, video cameras raised to shoulders, sound booms stretched overhead like fishing rods and a plethora of smartphones were held at the ends of outstretched arms. Will held back and watched. The driver of the car got out and walked round to open the rear passenger door. A man climbed out, and then he went to the other side and helped an elderly woman out. The woman was holding a long-stemmed flower in her gloved hands.

Will caught his breath.

He recognised the two old people: Cynthia and Adrian Lang, Alice’s adoptive parents.

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