‘They were seen one more time,’ she stated, and now her voice really was wavering. ‘Saturday morning, around eleven o’clock, at Bothwell services on the M74 southbound. The witness came forward to the police once the story had broken in the local media; something he hadn’t thought of as significant at the time. He’d seen two people matching my parents’ description putting a carrycot into the back seat of a car. It stuck in his mind because he had offered to help and they’d been quite brusque in their refusal. It was the last time anybody saw them.’

Anne opened her eyes wide, as though trying to clear them, the way you did when you had just about avoided tears.

‘And were the police satisfied that it was your parents this witness had seen?’ asked Ingrams. ‘Not just some couple with a carrycot?’

She nodded resignedly, as though she had spent many years contemplating the ways in which this might have turned out not to be the case. ‘It was quite a distinctive car. The witness said it was a lime-green Audi 80. That’s what my dad drove. I don’t really remember it, but it’s in some old photos, sitting in the drive. And they did used to have a bit of a palaver fitting the carrycot in the back seat. It was in the days before proper babies’ car seats, and according to my gran, my mum insisted on jamming it in sideways so that it was wedged lengthwise between the back seat and the passenger seat.’

‘What else did the police discover?’ Jasmine asked.

Anne took a breath, a smaller version of that same broken sigh. Anger, frustration, then self-discipline, keeping a lid on it.

‘Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Nobody had seen them between Friday night and late Saturday morning. It was as though they packed themselves into the car and drove off the planet, somewhere south of Hamilton. It became a big story in the papers for a few weeks, although I was too young to really be aware. Certainly too young to understand why my parents would …’

At this, her words dried up, and Jasmine saw tears spilling down her cheeks. She felt intrusive and voyeuristic, as well as achingly discomforted at the glimpse this offered her of her own future. If after a quarter of a century Anne still felt this kind of pain, then it wasn’t going to get easier for Jasmine any time soon.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anne said, ripping a sheet of kitchen towel from a holder on the worktop and dabbing at her face.

Jasmine knew from harsh experience that there was nothing helpful or sensible to say at this point, and so said nothing, despite the pressure she felt to fill the silence. Fortunately, Neil came in and filled it for them. He placed a black box file on the table and went across to comfort his wife.