‘This is quite a big jump from a couple of phone calls, to someone sneaking in here and stealing information.’ Dad’s look conveyed that he knew full well I was hiding something.

‘Dad, I’ve had a lot of nasty trolling – messages and threats online. It’s part and parcel of being a woman in the media these days, but it’s one of the reasons I decided to stop. Some of it was vicious. I don’t know what someone who could make those kinds of threats might do. I don’t want you to be scared…’

‘Good, because we aren’t!’

‘… but I do want you to be careful.’

Dad rolled his eyes. ‘Eleanor, when have you ever known your mother and me to be anything else?’

I managed a real smile, then. ‘That’s true. Okay. And if they call again, will you let me know, please?’

He got up to carry our plates into the kitchen. ‘Of course.’

I knew he wouldn’t let me know, but at least I’d asked.

While half-heartedly going through more of the Tufted Duck files that afternoon, I tried to process the information that felt far more pressing. Grandma had told the caller that I was staying with a friend who had died. Could that lead anyone to Charlie, and then Damson Farm, and then Daniel, Hope and me?

I’d never written about Charlie, and even if I had, I hadn’t mentioned that she’d died, because I hadn’t known. I hadn’t told Lucy or Miles, so they couldn’t inadvertently mention it to anyone. There had been nothing on social media about Charlie’s death, because she had closed down her account, and Daniel stayed well away from all of that. Plus, the Perrys had worked hard to keep the whole thing quiet because of Billie’s issues around the way that she died.

After going round and round, prodding at every argument, trying to figure out if I’d missed anything, I had to conclude that Grandma’s clue wouldn’t have helped anyone. I ached to talk it through with someone, a person who didn’t have most of their brain frozen solid in fear and so could think half-straight, but who could that be?

There was no way I could tell anyone this, without telling them everything. It may have been twisted priorities, but that was what scared me most of all.

Daniel arrived back at the same time as the walkers, who tramped through the door in a flurry of muddy boots and rosy cheeks just after four. The Tufted Duck being a B & B, they had all booked dinner at the nearest pub, about a quarter of a mile along the lake.

‘We need to think about food,’ I said to Daniel, once Hope had been settled with a bottle on Grandma’s knee in the lounge room, their presence nicely avoiding the post-creepy comment awkwardness. ‘I think I saw some pasta bake in the fridge.’

‘Is that a joke?’ Grandma said. ‘Whatever your parents might think, you three are meant to be on holiday!’