Hart was more matter-of-fact. ‘We’ll help you find a new job, come up with an authentic back-story and sort you out with a car, that kind of thing.’

‘But it does involve cutting yourself off completely from friends and family,’ said Stroud, her voice gentle. ‘No contact by phone, no interaction on social media and no emails or texts. It’s a clean slate, you’ll be starting over, and we will facilitate that, but you – all of you – must be completely on board, otherwise you’ll be found.’

The police officers were quiet then, a respectful pause to allow the Allen family to process the weight of their words. Few made the transition without difficulties. Many struggled for years, their old lives dead – a butchered, bloody mess of abandoned relationships and unanswered questions – while their hearts were still beating. Still loving. Grieving for all that was. It was a lonely journey.

‘We’ve found you a place to stay for a month or so,’ said Stroud. ‘It’s a three-bedroomed holiday let in a rural location. It will buy us some time, and allow you some privacy to come to terms with what’s happening and make some important decisions.’

By the time Stroud and Hart left, arranging to pick them up early next morning, the shadows had lengthened and the walls were dappled with glowing pockets of wintry late-afternoon sun.

Catherine gathered up their possessions, thinking about the friendships she had made – and would now lose – in the village. An instinct for self-preservation meant she had always kept others at arm’s length but she would miss the companionship, the lunches and coffees. Honor lay on her bed, watching YouTube videos on her phone. Once or twice, Catherine watched her tap out a message and the answering flash of blue light, but she lacked the stomach to challenge her. Edward was listening to podcasts, earphones plugged in, but emotionally checked out. His sister had rung him a couple of times, but he hadn’t picked up, unsure if any journalists had tracked her down yet and unable to cope if they had.

The hours crawled by in hell’s waiting room, each of them lost in their own way. At seven o’clock, the family ate overcooked steak and lukewarm chips in the hotel restaurant. They went to bed early because there was nothing to say.

Did you see me on the television tonight? Every word of it was true. I wrote to your mother every week, on a Wednesday, so she would have my letter in time for the weekend. But it’s not like today, when contact is encouraged between separated families. My foster carers didn’t like it. They were decent people who opened their home to a damaged soul, but they’d been given a sanitized version of my case history and had young children of their own.