I scroll down to the next photo. Clive. It looks like it was taken in a pub. He’s sitting with a pint in front of him, grinning. His blurry eyes give away that he’s had a few. He looks his age: the whites of his eyes are bloodshot and, even though the photo is only of his top half, I can see that he’s stocky. He’s wearing a football shirt in grey and maroon – West Ham? Rory would know – and a gold chain around his neck. The hand holding the glass has a fat sovereign ring on the middle finger.

Who were Clive and Deirdre Wilson?

I sense Ted watching me. I look up and meet his eyes through the glass of his office – I say office, it’s more of a cubicle. He’s on the phone and is leaning back in his chair. Who is he talking to? Is it about me?

Stop being paranoid, Jess. I turn back to my computer. He’s probably talking to Jared, our slimy editor at the Herald, who thankfully works at HQ. When he comes here – luckily for us, only very occasionally – he stands too close to me and Ellie, our trainee reporter, and addresses us by our names too many times for it to be natural. Apart from Ted, the office is quiet today. Seth is at his computer slowly going through images. Ellie is out on a story with Jack. Sue sits around the corner so I never see her unless I go to the loo or am heading out, although I can hear her on the phone – her voice is unusually loud – more often than not chatting to her sister about her ‘good-for-nothing’ husband.

I log onto Facebook. A few times over the years I’ve tried to search for Heather under her maiden name, Powell. I was intrigued, I suppose, to find out what had happened to her. To see what she looked like now. To know if she ever married or had children. For those two years of my childhood the Powells had felt like family, and even though I could never go back, a part of me missed them. Although numerous Heather Powells came up, they were never her. But now I know her married name I search for Heather Underwood.

Her page is the first to appear and I click on it eagerly, wanting to know more about her life. I’m disappointed to find that her settings are restricted so that I can see only a profile photograph of her. I click on it anyway, intrigued to know what the adult Heather looks like. It’s a close-up and obviously taken on holiday, judging by the palm trees in the background. She’s squinting slightly but my stomach flips at the familiar sight of her: the long dark hair, the almond-shaped eyes, with new lines fanning out at the edges, the clear skin. Oh, Heather.

‘Attractive woman.’