Dylan swears under his breath. ‘I need a fag.’

I open my bag and retrieve my packet of Marlboro Gold. ‘Here,’ I say, offering it. He takes one without saying thank you, and waits for me to light it for him. When I’ve done so, we both move away from the crowd.

‘I can’t get over this,’ he mutters, as we walk down the street. ‘It’s like Rose and Fred West all over again.’

‘I hope not. They had more than one body buried in their garden.’

Dylan raises his eyebrows. ‘Maybe now everybody will stop pointing the finger at me,’ he says. He takes a deep puff on his cigarette. ‘The police wouldn’t leave me alone after Flora went missing. Even when my fairground mates vouched for me. The cops made my life a misery. They were everywhere. They questioned everyone who worked there and wouldn’t let us leave. We were supposed to go up to Blackpool but we had to stay on in Tilby until the police had finished with their enquiries.’

Dylan stops to lean against a wall, one leg bent backwards with his foot resting on the brick. He still manages to look cool. Part of me wishes he’d become fat and ugly in the interim years. For Flora. But no. Here he is looking better than ever. Arsehole. While beautiful, vibrant Flora has been reduced to decaying bones. He might not have killed Flora but it’s still his fault she’s dead. He should have walked her home. She was just sixteen years old.

Jack is oblivious to me and Dylan standing further up the street – he’s too busy snapping away with his camera. He’s now taken it off the tripod and has it pressed up to his face as he tries to get as close to the forensics tent as possible. Any minute now I’m sure he’ll be shooed away by the police officer. I had better be quick.

‘When did you meet Clive?’

He exhales smoke slowly into the misty air. ‘Oh, years ago. My mum was dating his brother, Speedy.’

‘Speedy?’

‘That was his nickname. Because he supplied drugs and was always on speed. But his real name was Norman.’

Norman. Oh, my God. ‘Norman Wilson was dating your mum in 1994?’ Is he still involved with drugs? Were both Clive and Norman dealers? Were they running some kind of drugs racket here in Bristol? But Norman had said he hadn’t seen much of Clive over the years.

He nods. ‘For a few years. They split up a year or so after Flora went missing.’

‘And Clive and his mum, Deirdre? You knew them too?’

‘We spent Christmas with them once. There, actually.’ He gestures to the house down the street.