Eliza handed the female constable a pair of sunglasses and ran through the plan they had concocted together. ‘Keep your head down and don’t engage. Take the main road to the motorway and pull in at the first service station. Call me then. If any of the journalists decide to follow you, it will be a good diversionary tactic and buy us some time.’

‘You’re using a decoy?’ Edward was incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

The probation officer laughed. ‘How else do you think we’re going to get you out of here?’

At Eliza’s insistence, the family gathered by the back door until the signal was given. Then they hurried across the dark garden, fresh snow crunching underfoot.

Honor started to say something. Eliza pressed a finger to her lips. Across the still of the night, they heard shouts and the rapid-fire click of camera shutters as the disguised female police officer and her colleague exited the front door and ran the gauntlet of photographers on their way to the decoy vehicle.

At the top of the lane that ran behind their cottage, an unmarked car was waiting for the Allens. The two journalists covering the back entrance, distracted by the hullabaloo at the front, had wandered down the lane to see what was going on and missed the family by seconds. As they drove away, Catherine strained to catch a glimpse of her home for the last time, a sickness in the pit of her stomach.

A photographer, who suspected something was afoot when ‘Catherine’ emerged without her family, slid down the icy lane after them, camera high above his head, hiccoughing flashes. But he was too late to get a decent frame, and by the time he’d jogged back to tell his colleagues they’d been played, the Allens were long gone.

Honor was asleep within minutes, her head resting on her father’s shoulder. Edward shut his eyes too, lulled into a doze by the blast of the heater and the rumble of tyres as they ate up the miles.

Eliza, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, handed Catherine a bundle of letters and business cards she’d collected from her doormat.

‘They’ll be offering you loads of money,’ she said. ‘Before you get any ideas, any interviews will have to be approved by the Official Solicitor. I wouldn’t advise accepting any payments. You’ll be torn apart for profiting from your crime.’

‘I’m not planning on giving any interviews.’ She leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes. The first streaks of dawn were breaking open the sky, the stars luminous against the pale wash of blue. The driver – a police officer, she guessed, or someone who worked with Eliza – was focused on the road and did not look at her at all.