‘Well done, Mum,’ Bella says. ‘Will that be all, Officer?’

‘There’s just one more thing.’ He reaches for his shoulder bag and takes out a slim sheaf of what look like colour photographs.

‘No, I don’t think it’s a good idea . . .’ Bella says, quickly.

‘No, not to worry, Miss,’ he says. ‘This is something else.’

‘Let me see them first, please.’

He flips through the prints until he reaches the one he wants, and shows it first to Bella. After a quick glance she passes it to her mother. At first Molly can’t make it out; it looks like a tangled mess of mud and old branches, but then she sees, amid the browns and greys, a glimpse of something red. She manages to stifle a gasp.

‘Have you any idea what this red material could be, Ms Goddard?’

She shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance. ‘Could be anything, I suppose. Something blown in off the field, an old plastic fertiliser bag? Litter gets everywhere these days, doesn’t it?’

But she knows immediately what it could be. She would recognise that particular shade of red anywhere: Jimmy’s red mac, the one he was wearing when he disappeared. Or Kit’s canvas boat, the one they christened Robin with a bottle of champagne.

Over the buzzing in her ears she can hear Bella saying, ‘I think it might be time to give my mother a rest, if that is all?’ Soon enough the police are on their feet, looming over her once more, saying their goodbyes, promising to be in touch as soon as they have any results – probably by the end of the week, depending on how busy the lab is – and thanking them for their time.

Molly wants to shout at them, Oh, just shut up and go away, will you? Instead she closes her eyes. In the blessed silence, once they are gone, Bella returns to her seat and takes her mother’s hand.

‘Do you want to talk about this, Mum?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not now, love. Not now.’

The next thing Molly knows is the knock of the evening carer bringing her supper. She must have been asleep here in her chair for several hours. The plate of sandwiches Bella made is still beside her, their edges already curling in the dry heat. The cup of tea is stone-cold.

For a moment she has forgotten what happened this afternoon and feels content. It’s not a bad life for someone of my age, she tells herself. Eighty-five next March, for heaven’s sake. However did she manage to hang on for so long? She’s a bit creaky in the leg department and can no longer shop for herself, but she still has all her marbles, which counts for a lot.