I never deluded myself.

I always knew what this week would be like. One part of me longing for it: the slim hope the anniversary coverage might kick-start things again for the investigation. But the other part: pure dread. People giving me that look again. That woman. Do you remember? The woman who didn’t say anything. On the train. Do you remember? When that girl disappeared? Christ – is it a year ago already?

But I do still want it – the reconstruction on Crimecatchers, for the family. That poor mother. I just don’t want to be a part of it.

You can understand that, can’t you? I mean, I didn’t mind them asking. Although Tony went ballistic when the police phoned up – surprised they had the gall.

You leak her name. You let everyone judge her and you think she wants to be on your television programme . . .

He still insists it was a deliberate leak – the press getting my name. We have no proof and I have got to the point, to be frank, where I am not sure I care one way or the other; all I know is that I cannot bear the thought of everyone turning up all over again. Raking it up all over again. Judging me. Hating me.

Even loyal customers in the shop giving me that slightly odd look.

Deliberately not mentioning it.

The official version from the police press office is that there was no leak; they merely mentioned to a few reporters that the witness on the train was ‘attending a conference’. But they must have said what kind of conference, otherwise how did the press know I was a florist? Whatever. Some of the press pack checked out the various floristry events, worked through the lists of delegates from Devon and Cornwall, and eventually landed at our door.

I still go cold, thinking about it.

Of course, if I’d been smarter they would have had no way of confirming it. If I had thought to say, I don’t know what you’re talking about, they would have had to leave it at that. But I didn’t.

I know this is going to sound completely stupid but what I said in my complete disorientation on the doorstep was, Who gave you my name?

Why the hell did you say that? was the first thing Tony asked. Jesus, Ella. You gave it to them on a plate.

But I didn’t; not really. I didn’t let any of the reporters in. I didn’t give them any quotes, I swear, but they still took my picture, and they phoned and phoned and phoned until we had to change the number.

‘Harassment’, Tony called it. Hasn’t she been through enough? Bless him. My sweet, sweet man.

And then things turned really nasty. Horrid stuff on social media. Until in the end we had to close down the shop for a bit.

But here’s the thing. As horrid as it all was, I still don’t think I have been through enough. She’s still gone – that beautiful girl. Most probably dead – almost certainly dead – although from what I hear, her poor mother still clings to the hope that she’s alive.

And can you blame her? I probably would, too.

The police liaison officer for Crimecatchers told me that Mrs Ballard has given a really harrowing interview. I’m not even sure I can watch. Anna’s mother has spent the last year collecting all this information on missing girls who have eventually turned up years later. You know – held captive by some loon, brainwashed and then finally escaped. They had to cut all that out of the interview, apparently, as it’s not the police’s focus at all. They obviously think Anna is most probably dead. This is about finding a killer, not finding a loon with a girl in his basement.

Out of sensitivity, they have kept all of Mrs Ballard’s stories about Anna as a little girl. All her hopes and her dreams. That’s apparently just the sort of thing that makes people phone in with new information. But it’s all about finding the two men. Finding the body, I suppose. Makes me go cold to think of that . . .

And this is where Tony gets really angry. His take is if the police hadn’t been so slow in putting out the appeal to trace Karl and Antony after I tipped them off, then maybe they would have stopped them doing a bunk. Most probably abroad.

As far as I can tell, the delay was something to do with Sarah. The police are diplomatic but, putting two and two together, it seems at first she denied ever meeting them. The men on the train. Said I was a fantasist. It was only when they went over all the CCTV footage and finally found a couple of shots of them getting off the train together, and also outside the station, that the police even put their pictures out. Too late.

But that, of course, is where it all goes wrong and it all comes back to

me.

If I had phoned in a warning in the first place. If I had stepped up.

Stepped in.

You are not to think like that. You can’t take the world on your shoulders. You did nothing wrong. Nothing, Ella. It was those men. Not you. You can’t go on blaming yourself.

Can’t I, Tony?

And I’m not the only one now.

The first postcard came a few days ago.

At first I was so shaken when I read it, I had to go straight to the bathroom. Vomited.

I can’t explain why I felt so very scared. Shock, I suppose, because initially it seemed so threatening, so darned nasty. And then when I finally calmed down and thought it all through, I suddenly realised who’d sent it. And with that came a mixture of relief and crippling guilt. To be perfectly honest with you, I probably deserve it.

It was just anger. Not a real threat; just lashing out.

That first postcard was inside an envelope. A black card with letters cut out of a magazine. WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP HER? It was just like you see on a television drama, and not even very well done. Still sticky to the touch.

I was stupid; I ripped it up and put it in the bin because I didn’t want Tony to see. I knew he would phone the police and I didn’t want that. Them round here. The press round here. All that craziness all over again.

It took me a while to process it properly. To start with, I thought it was just another random nutter, but then I thought, Hang on a minute, the anniversary appeal hasn’t even been on the telly yet.

The truth is the story has been forgotten. Until the programme tonight, no one else will have given it a second thought. That’s how it works – why it’s so difficult for the police. It’s all people talk about one minute, and then the next, everyone forgets.

Then today another card arrived. Black again, with a nastier message.

BITCH . . . HOW DO YOU SLEEP?

So that I see it even more clearly now. This is my fault. This is to pay me back, not just for what I didn’t do for Anna, but for going down there in the summer.

I know exactly who the postcards are from now . . .