Flora, her firstborn, her beautiful, dutiful, intelligent daughter, who’d never put a foot wrong in her life, wasn’t the sort of girl to go off without telling her family. The three of them were tight-knit, even more so after Keith died. And, okay, maybe Flora hadn’t mentioned this boy, this Dylan Bird, but that was probably because it hadn’t been serious. It had only been a few weeks or so, according to Heather, who’d eventually had to spill the beans, even though Margot could tell she felt disloyal by doing so.

And that had been that. No more discovered clothing, no body, no leads. The last known sighting of her had been on Thursday, 25 August 1994. A witness came forward to say he’d been driving along Tilby’s high street and had seen Flora walking alone in the rain at around 9 p.m. Her curfew had been nine thirty. Margot had made only two stipulations that summer: that Flora and Heather stick together, and that they were home before it got dark.

Yet Flora had broken both those rules. She hadn’t stayed with her sister. And she’d never come home.

‘Margot Powell.’ Ruthgow extends a gloved hand rather formally and Margot takes it.

‘How are you, Gary? Long time.’

He smiles tightly. ‘Indeed.’

Was she being too familiar with him? They’d begun to grow closer at one point, all those years ago, the grieving mother and the grieving widower. They’d even gone for a drink at the local pub, the Horseshoe, where she’d cried into her glass of wine and he’d promised he’d do everything he could to find Flora. But he’d not kept his promise. After the TV stations and the newspapers, and even the town, began to view Flora’s disappearance as old news, Gary Ruthgow had put in for a transfer, left their little local police station (since closed down) and fled to Bristol. A new start. A new life. Hers had crumbled around her ears so that even getting up each day and putting one foot in front of the other was a mammoth challenge. She kept going only for Heather. And then, later, for Ethan.

If Heather died too, her life was all but over.

‘What brings you all this way?’ she asks, when it’s obvious he’s not about to make clear the reason for his visit. He shuffles his feet and blows on his hands as though biding his time.

‘It’s rather delicate, I’m afraid. It concerns Heather. And Flora to an extent.’

Margot’s heart drops. What does he mean? Does he have new information about Flora?