‘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.

‘What is it?’ Jack stared at my open-mouthed reaction. In stunned silence, I handed back the book. He frowned. ‘What the hell’s happened there? That’s a bit bloody creepy, if you ask me.’

‘Creepy and downright malicious. Who would do such a thing? Mrs Barley will be devastated.’

Jack pulled a face. ‘You don’t think – I mean, she couldn’t have done it herself, could she? You know, in a fit of pique or something. She can be a bit, well, odd …’

I stared at him, incredulous. ‘Mrs Barley? Never. She worshipped that man. Her whole life revolved around him.’

He looked a little sheepish. ‘It was only a thought. The alternative is really worrying.’

‘D’you think it can be restored?’

‘It’s doubtful. The pen’s gone right through the paper on some of them.’ He shook his head.