But she’d been spotted at nine o’clock that evening walking along the high street. The driver who saw her said she was alone. And then nothing. No other sightings of her. It was as if she’d walked into a black hole or an alternative universe. She simply … vanished.

And I kept my promise. I never did tell. At first it was because I thought she’d come back and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. I wanted her to think she could confide in me. Trust me. And then, when it was obvious something had happened, I thought maybe she’d run away with Dylan. Guilt and fear kept me away from Heather and, understandably confused and annoyed that I wasn’t supportive of her, Heather became aggressive and surly with me – until eventually I stopped calling for her altogether. I abandoned her when she most needed my friendship. And I’ve lived with the guilt of that for the last eighteen years. Not that I thought about it. That’s what I do best: bury my head in the sand. If I don’t think about it, I can pretend it hasn’t happened.

Except – as I’m beginning to realize – these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. To make you sit up and pay attention, like a devout preacher, or a strict, determined teacher, so that you can no longer just put your hands over your ears to block out the sound.

I flick my cigarette butt onto the ground and stamp on it.

It’s stopped raining so I take down my umbrella and trudge the rest of the way to the office, stopping at Woodes on Park Street to buy two coffees, handing one to Stan, who’s cuddled up in his sleeping-bag outside the door.

‘Sounds like it’s all kicking off in there today,’ he says, inclining his head towards the building. ‘Your boss has been out here asking me if I’ve seen you. He’s tried calling you apparently.’ He warms his hands on the cardboard cup. He has on threadbare fingerless gloves and his nails are yellow. Sometimes he finds a bed in a shelter, but more often than not he sleeps outside, on a bench in College Green or in a doorway. I’ve always wanted to ask him how he ended up here. What happened? Was he a teenage runaway, hiding from an abusive family? Drugs or alcohol? He can’t be that much older than me.

I check my watch. I’m not late. If anything, I’m fifteen minutes early. Has Ted heard about Flora’s body being found?

‘I’d better go,’ I say, moving away from him to open the door.

He grimaces, as though I’m about to walk into a lion enclosure at a safari park. ‘Rather you than me. This is why I don’t have a job.’ He chuckles.