I drop it into my coat pocket and stand there for a few seconds, gazing out across the river. A seagull swoops down next to me and starts picking apart the remains of a sausage roll near my feet.

I can’t believe Flora’s body’s been found. After all these years.

Balancing the umbrella in the crook of my arm, I fumble in my bag for my cigarettes and light one, using my hand to shield the flame from the wind. I close my eyes as I take a few drags, instantly feeling calmer.

I always believed Flora was dead. Especially when her bloodstained blouse turned up in the undergrowth nearby. But her body having been found after all these years still comes as a shock.

I’d never told the police or Heather about the part I played in Flora’s disappearance.

I’d been a teenager, young and silly and terrified. I thought, if I told the truth, I’d get into trouble. So I kept quiet. And, obviously, at the time I didn’t realize that the event I’d previously perceived as so small and unimportant would become so significant, until it was clear that Flora wasn’t coming home.

So I did to Heather exactly what I’m doing to Rory now. I pushed her away.

My cheeks feel wet. I’m crying. I hardly ever cry. I hate it. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable. I’ve always felt it serves no purpose. In my view, it’s better to try to get on with things. I brush away the tears angrily. Get a grip, woman, I tell myself. This isn’t about you. It’s about Flora. Beautiful, exotic Flora.

Would I have been able to save her if I’d known?

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she’d whispered to me, her long hair brushing my face as her mouth pressed against my ear. She’d smelt of White Musk from the Body Shop and fruity lip gloss. I think she knew I looked up to her, and that I’d do anything she asked. ‘Particularly Heather,’ she’d added. Particularly Heather.

I’d agreed, of course. She’d had a rucksack on her shoulders, one of those school ones in yellow hessian that you could write on. She’d drawn a heart with the initials DB 4 FP inside it with flouncy letters. They were going on a day trip, she’d said. Her and Dylan. She’d be back before dark, as always. ‘But cover for me,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t want anyone to know that we won’t be in Tilby. If anyone asks, I’m at the fair. Okay? Promise?’

I’d promised.

I never knew what she did that day. Because I never saw her again.