Sometimes people ask me, Why flowers, Ella?

The truth is I cannot remember when life, for me, wasn’t about flowers. Right from when I was tiny and I used to collect wild flowers on walks with my gran, mesmerised by the colours and the scents and the way you could make the whole impact and mood change by combining them in different ways. The simple, joyful sunburst of a huge fistful of primroses, then the softening and mellowing effect if you added in just a few bluebells for the surprise, the contrast. The hint of the Mediterranean, with the blue and the yellow together.

I would so love it when my mother let me pick flowers from the supermarket to put in vases at home, experimenting with the way they fell. Learning how tulips only look right if you put them in precisely the right height of vase so they weep over the rim. Not too much. Not too little.

I have never forgotten the joy of learning to revive roses with fresh water and cutting the stems super sharp at an angle. The miracle of them lifting up their heads again as if saying thank you.

It was no surprise that when I was old enough for a Saturday job, I knew precisely where I would try first. There was a small florist in the town I grew up in. I passed it every day on my walk to school, always stopping to examine the buckets of daffodils outside in the spring, glancing at the window displays. It wasn’t especially inspirational, to be honest: standard bouquets, standard displays and too many carnations.

But I have never been more proud than when I was offered my regular six-hour Saturday shift. Up early to help sort the new stock, breathing in the heavenly scent of it all. The shiny ribbon. The rustle of tissue and cellophane. I learned very quickly to respect the popular tastes – the horror of those carnations and the ugly ferns. I was careful not to offend, biting my tongue at first. But as my confidence and my knowledge grew, I started to make little suggestions to our regulars. How about sunflowers? Or lilies? Something a bit different for a change?

And it wasn’t long before the manager, Sue, allowed me to order in new things, and to make up my own little set-price bouquets.

You have a really good eye, Ella. You’re a natural . . . You should do a course.

So I did. A basic course for starters, then a second, more advanced course for wedding flowers, and a third for contemporary design. After that I entered a competition and made the local paper by winning a regional award.

The prize was a week working with a top florist in London, visiting the flower markets at the crack of dawn. Scary. Exhausting. Exhilarating. Heaven

. . .

And then the unimaginable. After I had finished A levels, I did a year at college: floristry and business studies. During that year, my grandmother died, leaving an unexpected legacy to be shared between her five grandchildren. Go travelling, said my friends. Blow it on a car. Or a world trip.

No. Lying in bed at night, beaming, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I managed to negotiate the lease on this place. A shop of my own.

Complete madness, my parents said. Do you have any idea how many small businesses fail in their first year?

And yes – they were right, in a way. It took much longer to come good than I expected. In truth, it provided little more than the minimum wage after costs, in that first year, and let’s not talk about the hours I put in. But it didn’t fail – quite the opposite by the time I got into my stride, in the second and third years.

I learned how to make the bread-and-butter earnings from weddings and seasonal holidays. Mother’s Day. Valentine’s Day. But the devil was definitely in the detail, I was sure of that.

To compete with the supermarkets, I knew I had to offer something distinctive. My floral USP was an informal, shabby-chic style, with homemade touches that set us apart. My bouquets were hand-tied before this was common practice. I used unusual twine, and handmade labels decorated with pressed flowers from blooms that had gone over.

I learned to waste nothing. Discounted posies when I’d over-ordered.

Spent extra hours with the flower presses to ensure no waste.

Soon I was selling little cards and labels, as well as using them on my bouquets. A very useful extra-income stream.

And so this is where I am happiest. My shop. My creation.

Here in the shop I do not worry so much what people think of me or what I say – whether I am old-fashioned or an old head on young shoulders, which is what everyone used to say when I set this place up.

Here – where it is just 6 a.m. and the rest of the world is barely stirring – I am in my own little world, with orders to make up before we meet with the police back at the house. Back in the real world, where Anna is still missing and the postcards have started to frighten Tony as well as me.

I work carefully. A birthday bouquet to be collected at noon. Six table decorations for a dinner at one of the local hotels. Two cups of coffee. Three.

I work carefully, using my favourite secateurs. Bright red handles with the sharpest blade on the market. Superb.

And then the strangest thing. At around six thirty, maybe six forty-five, I leave the last of the table decorations on the counter, nearly finished, to use the loo, which is a tiny extension at the back of the unit. When I return to the bench, the secateurs are gone.

There is the noise of a car right outside and, I admit it, I am spooked. Thrown by this. I am normally so very careful with the secateurs, you see, not just because they are dangerous but because they are extremely expensive. I don’t want them to drop on the floor. For the handles to crack. They are a bit like a chef’s favourite knife. A lucky charm. I have two spare sets in the drawers but I don’t feel comfortable using any others. They just don’t feel the same in my hand.

I walk to the front door and stare out to the parking area outside. A single car has its headlights on full beam so I can’t see who is inside. I check the shop door. Unlocked. But then I don’t normally worry about this. Whenever I am here, I consider myself open for business. If anyone spots the lights on and calls in early, I want to sell. Will always take an order. But today, just this once, I put the latch across the top. I stand very still and find that my heart is pumping. I wait a while. Two minutes. Maybe more.

Don’t be so silly, Ella. Don’t overthink this.

And then the car finally pulls away and I feel my shoulders move, reminding myself that the neighbouring shops have flats above them and this is not so surprising. This early movement. Probably just someone off to work?

So I return to the workbench area at the back of the shop and am totally confused. From this new angle through the archway to the serving area at the front, I can see the secateurs resting on the top of the till. I honestly don’t remember putting them there. Can’t ever remember putting them there before. There is a slight slope to the top of the till, and this doesn’t seem the kind of thing I would do at all. What if they were to slide off?

I look around me in the way you look around the kitchen when you can’t find the ingredient you thought you had removed already from the fridge.

I am tired. That’s it. You are tired and you are on edge. Overthinking and messing up, Ella. Tony was right . . . you should have stayed home and done this later.

Way too many thoughts pumping around my brain. I finish up the final decoration quickly and store everything in the cooler near the workbench – a sort of flower-fridge that keeps everything at the perfect temperature, all ready for my return.

Back at the house, Tony is in the kitchen in his dressing gown.

‘You OK? I’ve been worried. You should have let me come with you.’ ‘It was fine. I wanted you here to speak to Luke. All done.’

His tone is just a little calmer now, but I can tell from the way he is standing, and also the dark shadows under his eyes, that he has not slept much either. He reacted just as I expected, more worried than cross. You should have told me, Ella. No more secrets . . .

Which makes me feel terrible. I showed him the most recent postcard.

But I haven’t mentioned Matthew yet . . .

‘I don’t know how I feel about you working at the shop on your own now. Early like this, I mean. Until we know precisely what is going on. What the police say. I wish you had listened to me. Stayed home. Or let me come with you.’

‘I had to get the orders done, Tony. And anyway, it will just turn out to be some saddo. A spotty teenager with nothing better to do.’ I cannot make this sound entirely convincing, because I no longer know what I think. What I believe. How scared I really ought to be.

‘They called at the house, Ella. Whoever wrote that card called here. At the house.’

‘Yes. And you’re right – it changes things, and I realise now that I should have told you right at the beginning and I’m very sorry about that. But I am happy to take advice now. The police are going to be here in half an hour. I’ll listen to whatever they say, Tony. The only reason I wasn’t worried before is I honestly thought it was the mother.’

‘But can we rethink you working early on your own?’

‘If it will make you happier, I can try to juggle a bit in the future.’ I look him in the face. ‘So did you speak to Luke?’

Last night in bed, Tony was the one to say it first. Would you think I was mad if I said we should offer to adopt the baby? I cried and hugged him tight, so relieved that he was thinking exactly the same thing as me. We agreed we are too old and it is probably completely insane, but there is no way we could let someone else bring up Luke’s child if Emily’s family can’t cope.

‘He says he’ll mention it to Emily later. She’s only ten weeks, so it’s a bit early for decisions.’ Tony puts his hand up to my cheek. ‘I think he was relieved, but it’s hard to tell. He’s still in shock.’

Tony goes on to say Luke would like to stop working at the shop down the line. He’s finding it too much with all the worrying. I completely understand, though I know it won’t be easy to find a replacement. The early starts put people off. But Luke must come first, so we will have to work something out.

‘OK. So let’s see what the police have to say, shall we? Talk again about Luke and the shop after that.’ I take his hand, still rested on my cheek, and kiss it.

To be honest, I am surprised that we are to see the London DI. Apparently he is down for an update with the Ballards in Cornwall, so will be calling in here on the way back.

Matthew has updated me. His police-contact friend handed over the earlier postcard. Nothing from forensics. No prints. But they want to see this new one, too. I have put it in a transparent freezer bag. Matthew says they will provide proper evidence bags and special gloves for me to use if any more postcards turn up. Better chance of getting prints, apparently. He has asked me not to mention him by name. To imply that I handed the postcards over to the police myself.

Tony has now stepped away and is looking under the sink, I assume for fly spray; there’s a bluebottle buzzing at the kitchen window. Eventually he gives up on the cupboard and instead opens the window to shush the fly out with a piece of kitchen towel, before turning back to me and tilting his head.

‘You look really tired, Ella. You doing all right, love?’

‘I’m fine. Just relieved you know about the postcards now.’