Trends are such a funny thing. Greenery is back, big time. Suddenly we can’t get enough glossy greenery in to bulk out our bouquets and displays. All the restaurants and the brides want it everywhere. Green table runners. Green arches for the doorways. Luscious leaves everywhere. It is a bit like the popularity of baby names. Trends creep up on you. Suddenly everyone is called Amelia. Suddenly everyone wants greenery.

I don’t mind, actually. Change is good and I enjoy gathering my own greenery from the garden and local lanes. I have always grown lots of hostas for the large leaves and curved shoots, and have found that cuttings from our laurel hedges are working well for larger displays, too. It is good to be doing new things, and to be frank, I need something to distract me. I hate this new limbo. Two weeks since that new postcard and zilch progress. I handed it straight over to Matthew, who passed it on to his friend Melanie Sanders. They ran the usual fingerprint tests, postmark enquiries, blah blah. Nothing. Whoever sends them must wear gloves. Turns out the haters can be clever as well as cruel.

Right now I am making up today’s final birthday order while Luke holds the fort front of house. He is looking so much better, and the two contenders interested in his job are calling in to see him later while I’m in Cornwall with Matthew. He’ll vet them first. I’ll only see them if they are OK about the hours. I’ve had a couple of time-wasters over the ad in the window, horrified at the very early starts. I guess teenagers like their weekend lie-ins.

I set everything out as usual – ribbons, tape, pins – and begin the bouquet. A combination of roses and stocks, in pink and purple, with some rosemary for the scent. I do my usual trick of twisting and building slowly to keep the balance and the rhythm. It is a fortieth birthday bouquet, and so I add in a couple more flowers than usual as I remember my fortieth so well. I check the display, bind it, trim the ends and then pop it into a vase just to circle it, walking round to check from all angles before wrapping it in tissue and ribbon.

I pop it into the cooler and move through to Luke to remind him that it is not for delivery, that the husband is calling in for it later. It’s prepaid, all

written up in the book.

And then I check my watch and Luke is telling me not to worry about the shop, that he has it all in hand, and reminds me he is seeing his potential replacements later. Girl first, then boy. They both did the Ten Tors same time as him apparently, so are solid. Used to early starts. Reliable. If they both seem sane, he will leave their CVs and contact details on the shelf under the counter and I can decide whether to see them myself or to advertise. He would like to stop working by Christmas at the very latest so that he can concentrate on his studies. Is that OK?

I smile. I like that Luke is doing this for me; that he is sleeping better and doing OK back at school. It’s been a tough time.

And then the text comes. Matthew is waiting in his car outside. I don’t want Luke worrying; I tell him I am off to see a potential client in Cornwall and will be back late afternoon. I kiss Luke on the forehead and he pulls a face, so I wink my goodbye and remind him to text if there are any worries. I warn him that Cornwall can be a bit patchy for signal, so not to panic if I don’t reply immediately.

Climbing into Matthew’s car, I smile at the evidence of his very different new life. Dark circles still under his eyes – the parental clutter of a nursery rhymes CD, spare bibs, a pink blanket in the back. A soft yellow duck on the parcel shelf. The ‘Baby on Board’ sticker, which Matthew tells me his wife insisted upon.

‘You sure you’re feeling OK about this, Ella?’ Matthew looks over his shoulder as he reverses out of the parking space. I think of the headlights that so frightened me those early mornings in the past. This was the exact parking spot. It was probably someone in the flats above the shops. I put on my seatbelt and try not to dwell on it. Enough now, Ella.

‘A bit nervous, but I want to come.’

I didn’t honestly know what to think when Matthew first rang me. It was a shock. Mrs Ballard getting in touch with him. At first I wondered if it was to be some kind of formal complaint – me sending him down there that time. Suspecting her of sending the postcards. But no. Something even more surprising.

It is starting to rain and Matthew apologises. His windscreen wipers make an annoying squeaking noise. He tells me that replacing the blades is on a long list of things he may not get around to until his daughter goes to university. I laugh. He laughs.

‘It gets easier,’ I say. ‘Once they sleep.’

‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ he says, and he is wearing that open expression I so like. Relaxed. Straight. Kind. I find myself looking at his profile and wondering again why he left the force. He avoids the question very cleverly whenever I raise it.

We make good time, stopping only to buy takeaway coffees. We listen to the radio mostly, and only once we are within ten minutes does he talk through his own strategy. Clever of him not to wind me up earlier.

The latest from the Met police is not good news. They have just discounted Sarah’s father from the inquiry into Anna’s disappearance. He was found in Norwich somewhere. I don’t know the details, in fact I’m not supposed to know this at all, but off the record Matthew says that CCTV from the hotel he was staying the night Anna went missing, along with mobile phone tracking, has provided a cast-iron alibi. He was in his hotel room when Anna went missing. No question. Cameras in the hallway show he only emerged when Sarah’s mum phoned him.

Mrs Ballard is now desperate. She wants to employ Matthew herself to review Anna’s disappearance: to try to see if the police have missed anything. She believes the case has gone completely ‘cold’. With no suspects left, the investigating team is being quietly reduced in number. Matthew, equally surprised by her sudden approach, says he has made it very clear that he is highly unlikely to be able to make progress alone. But he feels compassion for the family and wants to at least hear Mrs Ballard out. However, having been engaged by me first over the postcards, there is a potential conflict of interest and that’s why he has asked me along.

‘I remain almost certain that Mrs Ballard isn’t behind the cards, but I need to see you in the same room to make this call. I hate to be so blunt and to use you like a guinea pig but that’s where we are, Ella.’ He has said this already to me on the phone, and I do understand.

‘I can’t just work for you both. But I do worry about whether this Anna case will ever be solved now. It’s very sad for the family. Very tough.’ He is glancing at me. ‘But it’s upsetting for you too, Ella. My first call is your feelings.’

‘I know that. And I don’t think I’ll ever be happy until they find out what happened to her.’ I pause. ‘Do you think there’s any chance at all she’s still alive, Matthew?’

‘Very little. But Mrs Ballard won’t want to hear that. The mothers never do.’ Again he glances at me and then at the baby clutter. ‘I’m only coming to completely understand that now.’

We drive in silence for a time and I glance at him once, twice, finding myself frowning. ‘Do you mind me asking again, Matthew. Why you left the force?’ It seems such a shame to me; he seems so very good at this. So decent

. . .

He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead as we see a signpost for the farm, a right turning ahead.

‘Guilt.’ He says the word quietly, turning to me as I narrow my eyes. ‘There was a case. A child died. It wasn’t my fault, technically. But . . .’

I see his eyes change and wish I had not pushed him. I fidget with the seatbelt as he clears his throat and indicates to take the turning. I understand now.

‘OK. Here we are, then. You ready for this, Ella?’

I nod, and my stomach grips as we take the strange, narrow approach road to the farmhouse. I am thinking of that awful time I came down here myself. The tussle on the doorstep. The other reason Matthew says he needs assurance that Mrs Ballard has finally made peace over my own place in this.

As she opens the door, Mrs Ballard’s face is strained, her tone all effort. She looks older and thinner and I feel so sorry for her. ‘I can’t thank you enough for coming. Both of you.’ At first she cannot quite look at me. Not yet. And I see Matthew taking this in.

She fusses over making coffee, and though neither of us needs a drink, we accept her clattering about as an icebreaker. Something to ease things.

I admire the kitchen. The house. The large Aga. And then I feel embarrassed at my small talk, noting the pictures on the fridge. Anna as a little girl, unmistakable with her striking blonde hair. In most of the snaps she is with an older girl. Her sister, I assume. A few other photos with friends. A shot in a paddling pool. Anna doing cartwheels on the lawn.

Matthew kicks off the ‘business’ discussion. He asks Mrs Ballard outright if she understands that he remains engaged by me to investigate the postcards. Is she comfortable with this?

‘I understand from Ella that you visited her shop in the past? And that you were very upset when she called here once before.’

‘That was my fault,’ I say quickly.

‘No.’ Mrs Ballard leads the way through to the sitting room with her tray. It is a gorgeous room with French doors onto the garden. In the corner, a beautiful grand piano.

‘I was not myself, Ella. I apologise. I can understand why you might have thought it was me who sent the postcards, but I promise you I didn’t. I came to the shop because at that time I did blame you. It wasn’t fair, but I just didn’t know where to put my anger.’

‘I do understand.’

Matthew talks for quite a while about the difficulties of these kind of investigations. He talks about his contact in the force, about the frustration at the dead ends. The confirmation that Sarah’s father, who remains in custody ‘on other matters’, has a cast-iron alibi for the night Anna went missing. Mrs Ballard says she’s heard the same via Sarah.

‘So, no suspects left.’ Mrs Ballard puts down her mug. ‘Which is why I need your help, Matthew. I have some savings.’ The desperation in her voice is dreadful, and I watch her eyes as Matthew says he will need to think about things and get back to her.

There is this terrible impasse, and so I admire the piano, mention that I had lessons until my teens and regret giving it up. I move over to examine it close up and to take in the beautifully framed photographs along the top. Anna with her sister again, as bridesmaids. Family groups.

And then, such a shock. An extraordinary punch to my gut. The disorientation so great that I feel unsteady.

‘Who’s this?’ I pick up the photograph and turn to Matthew and Barbara Ballard, an image from the past forming again in my head. Not understanding this . . .

‘That’s the girls with a friend. When they did the Ten Tors.’ Mrs Ballard’s tone is wary.

‘But he was on the train.’ ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This boy – the boy with the curly hair. He was on the train to London that day. When Anna went to London.’

‘I’m sorry but you must be mistaken. No . . . no. That’s not possible. He was away.’

‘I’m telling you it was him.’ I am looking at the photograph again and then at Matthew, who has stood up and is walking across to me. ‘It was definitely him, Matthew. I nearly spilled my coffee on him . . .’

It was after that awful scene, when I passed the toilet. Sarah, oh Sarah

. . . When I decided to move seats to the other end of the train. We were going around a bend. I lost my balance, walking through the aisle.

I’m sorry. The lid loose on my coffee.

It’s OK. Don’t worry. It’s fine.

He looked right at me. Definitely him . . . That hair. Those eyes.

‘Who is this, Mrs Ballard?’ Matthew has taken the photograph from me and is holding it out to her, trying to make her look.