‘I hope not,’ I responded. ‘I mean, I think there would’ve been some sort of evidence if there was someone actually staying there. Probably just my imagination.’

‘Why don’t you get Jack to go and have a look, if you’re concerned? Just in case.’

I remembered the sensation of being watched when I’d been in the cottage the other day, and wondered if my instinct had actually been right. The hairs on my arms prickled at the prospect. If I could only convince Jack that there was a presence in the house. It seemed the most likely explanation, given that no one else had seen the man. Not everyone is sensitive to ghosts. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, but maybe I was more receptive to it for some reason.

We chatted a little longer and parted company. I went to buy my groceries and returned home. My appetite had vanished.

Jack was making his way around the living room on all fours in monster guise, pretending to chase a squealing Elodie. He looked up as I came through the door.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve just seen Lucy. She’s set me thinking again, about that … that man I saw in the garden. Jack, I had the weirdest feeling when I was in that house. I really think Rose Cottage might be haunted by Frank Barley.’

He stopped in mid-crawl, his head dropping. I thought I saw him roll his eyes.

‘I mean, if there had been an actual person in there, surely we’d have heard noises; the loo flushing, that sort of thing. I didn’t mention it before but I really felt quite spooked – as though I wasn’t alone.’

Jack sighed. He pulled himself to his feet. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. I thought you were over that.’

‘Well, I’m not! Just because I don’t keep talking about it doesn’t mean I don’t still stand by what I think – and what I saw.’

‘What you thought you saw.’ His voice was quiet, his expression weary.

‘For God’s sake! You didn’t see the photo. I want you to come round there with me now. I’ll show you the album. You can look for yourself. I’ve described the man I’ve seen to you often enough and he’s Frank Barley to a T.’

I shut Jobie in the kitchen, and, scooping Elodie up, frogmarched Jack down the garden and up Mrs Barley’s path. We went through the French doors and into the living room. I rooted through the sideboard. Spotting the old photo album that Mrs Barley had shown me, I handed it triumphantly to the exasperated Jack.

I looked around uneasily as he sat in the armchair, turning pages. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Christ, Mrs Barley was a looker in her day.’

‘Yes, never mind that.’ Placing Elodie on his lap, I took the album from him and leafed through to the section containing Frank.

Cold fear swept through me. The man’s face in every picture had been scribbled out with red ink. It was bizarre – and chilling.