Jess peers at the photographs on the bureau and finds one in which Charlotte was no older than Izzy. Again, the little girl is holding her mother’s hand in the garden. They appear inseparable. They always do, in any picture in which they are together. Their bond evident and poignant enough to compel Jess to wipe at an eye to wick away a tear. Her sadness only deepens when she returns her attention to the contents of the folder and disturbs the other artefacts. A child’s hand-drawn picture. Birthday cards sent from the little girl to her mother. A comfort muslin. Her milk teeth in an envelope.

Jess closes the folder, reties the ribbon and folds it away. Eager to finish her investigation of her client’s personal history, she flicks through a third folder stuffed with bank statements and investment documents, until she pauses and raises a letter. ‘Got it.’

A COURT OF PROTECTION document. The name of the DEPUTY with LASTING POWER OF ATTORNEY for Flo is highlighted: PHILLIP ARTHUR. Flo’s son’s address is also cited. He lives in France. ‘Your little boy.’ Jess looks up at a framed black-and-white picture of young Phillip on the bureau. Solemn and awkward, always. His eyes, troubled.

Jess ferrets out her phone and adds the phone number from the document. She saves the contact: FLO’S SON. Then rummages out a bale of handwritten envelopes. She takes off the rubber band and looks through them. All are addressed to PHILLIP GARDNER at various addresses, spanning decades. All have been RETURNED TO SENDER. NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS.

Jess looks at the glowing windows, as if seeking a light to banish the darkness that has crept inside her from Flo’s history. She closes the bureau drawer and leaves the room.

* * *

Glancing at the sunny garden through the open French windows, Jess checks on Flo and sees her client sitting in silence and gazing intently at the distant grove. Satisfied that Flo is safe, Jess peels away and pads to the front of the vicarage. She checks her SOS tracking handset to make certain that Flo hasn’t moved, then pulls the front door closed, with the catch left on.

There is a distant snick of secateurs from across the road, where the top of the elderly neighbour’s sun hat remains visible. Jess takes a deep breath and ambles over the lane to the opposing hedgerow. ‘Sorry. Me again.’

The gardener stretches upright without a groan.

‘Flo had a son too,’ Jess says, then bites her lip.