All she can tell them now is what she told them then. She had, and still has, absolutely no idea what happened, or why. She toys with the idea of pretending she has dementia and can’t remember anything. Except, of course, she can recall everything. Every moment, every sight, sound, smell, and all the players in the tragedy of that terrible summer: Kit, beautiful Kit, whose memory even now sends darts of electricity through her body; Jimmy’s sweet innocence; her father’s inconsolable sorrow and terrifying descent into madness.

She does not want to remember, does not want to go back. When journalists come to interview her they always ask: ‘When did you first start writing children’s stories?’ or ‘What was the title of your first book?’ She always lies. All these years, all those dozens of stories later, after all the books that have made her famous and turned her into a household name, giving her the chance to meet children of all nationalities and cultures on book tours around the world, she has never even taken it out of its cardboard box. It is still stored in the darkest, furthest part of a deep bottom drawer: her very first book, the stories she wrote for Jimmy, the book that started it all. The Ugly Dragon.

But it seems she will now be forced to remember.

Yesterday – was it only yesterday? – she’d settled herself in her favourite chair, placed so that she can see anyone coming up the path to her front door from the lodge where the wardens live. She spends most of her daytime hours here these days, reading or dozing in the warmth of the sun, which, if it’s shining, will reach her by ten in the morning and won’t leave until mid-afternoon.

She’d just made her morning cuppa when she saw one of the wardens – Gillian, the nicer one – emerging from the office and starting up the wheelchair-friendly path towards the bungalows, looking more preoccupied than usual, stern even.

Dear God, Molly thought, hoping it wasn’t bad news. Let it be a false alarm or, at worst, a minor alarm. The only other resident she knows personally is her right-hand neighbour, Fred, who used to enjoy a game of whist but cannot even remember his own name these days, poor old boy. But Gillian took the route leading to Molly’s door. She knocked and let herself in.

‘Cooee, Mrs Goddard. How are you feeling this morning?’ She pulled up a stool without waiting to be invited. ‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’ Any company was welcome these days.

‘I need to tell you that the police telephoned me this morning. Nothing to be concerned about, I’m sure. Just routine enquiries, they called it.’ Gillian leaned forward and took Molly’s hand, warm and comforting. ‘But you’re not to worry, my dear.’