On the drive down to Cornwall, Matthew phones home twice.

‘It’s just Braxton Hicks, Matt. I will ring if it changes. It’s fine. Braxton Hicks.’

‘I can come back. Stay home if you’d prefer? If you’re at all worried?’ ‘I’m fine.’

Sally is eight months gone and insists practice contractions are nothing to be alarmed about. Perfectly normal. But Matthew is no longer doing normal. He has found everything alarmingly abnormal since the surreal experience of the childbirth classes. Dear God. Why had his friends not warned him?

Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a caesarean, Sal? Some reckon they’re a lot safer, you know. And these days you can say. No shame in it.

Getting frightened, Matt? Sorry. But I’m not too posh to push. And it’s a bit late to chicken out now.

This whispered conversation had taken place with Sal sitting on a yoga mat in her grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt, with Matt following instructions on how to massage her back, thinking how very lovely but also slightly ridiculous she looked. From behind she looked her normal slim self

. . . just this huge balloon stuffed up her top.

Sal was the envy of everyone in the class. How come you’ve not swollen up all over? The others displayed their puffed-up ankles and their puffed-up legs, pinched the fat padding around their backs and their arms.

God knows. I’m eating like a horse.

This was true. Matthew had never seen his wife pack away so much. Fish finger sandwiches late at night with mayonnaise and chopped gherkins. The stench of her farts these days was mind-boggling.

Piss off, Matt. I don’t fart. I am a pregnant goddess.

Matthew checks his phone one more time and smiles. Truth is, Sal even farts in her sleep now.

The phone confirms a strong signal. No text. He could ring just one more time?

No. Calm down, man. She was getting prickly, the second call.

Everything is going to be just fine. Not long to go.

Matthew checks the satnav – less than a quarter of a mile to the Ballards’ farm – and pulls into a lay-by. Mel should be in the office by now. Good.

DS Melanie Sanders – hopefully soon to be DI Melanie Sanders – is Matthew’s dearest police pal from the old days. There was a time, a million years ago, when he had a bit of a crush on her; had hoped for something more. But that was history. He told Sal all about it. Came completely clean.

No. That wasn’t one hundred per cent true. He had not told her that he still got this slightly weird feeling in his stomach when he spoke to Mel. Not desire. Not that anymore. Just a feeling that reminded him of a whole different time, a different version of himself.

Three years out of the force, and Matthew hates to admit that he is still struggling to adjust.

He presses the button that links his dashboard to his phone and listens to it dial and ring.

‘DS Melanie Sanders.’

‘How many coffees have you had?’ ‘Matt?’

‘I will ring off and ring back if you’ve not had your second caffeine hit.’ She laughs. ‘You’d better not be after another of your favours.’

‘Of course I’m after a favour. But it’s two-way. I promise.’

‘Oh, it’s always two-way, Matt. I help you. And then I help you again.’ Now he laughs. ‘Seriously. You up on the missing Ballard girl?’

‘Just the family liaison gig. One of our team, Cathy, is assigned to the family. We get updates from London – when they can be bothered. Which isn’t often. The DI on the case is a right little sir, between us. Why?’

‘So any of the family ever in the frame, as far as you know? Mum and dad in the clear?’

‘And why ever would you want to know that?’ ‘No reason.’

‘You’d better not be meddling in a live case again, Matt. We all know where—’

‘Don’t worry. If I have anything for you, I promise, cross my heart and

—’

‘Fingers crossed behind your back.’ ‘You know me.’

They are both quiet for a moment.

Every time they liaise like this, Melanie tries to persuade him to

reconsider. To go back into the force. She still reckons it’s an option despite all the water and the bridges, and swears that once she is sufficiently senior she will fix it, twist his arm. But Matt always turns it into a joke until they hit

this silent little impasse. An understanding. She thinks he’s wasting his talent. And he’s frightened to think about that one too much.

‘OK. You didn’t hear this from me, Matt, but word is the parents’ marriage is not too hot. Hardly surprising. But no. Family all have alibis. Our brief is just to keep an eye on them. The DI on the case – did I mention he’s a patronising prat? – anyway, his focus is still finding the two guys on the train. Between us, there has been the usual cock-up liaising with our European friends.’

‘So – abroad then?’

‘Almost certainly. Not a squeak here. No leads at all. No forensics and nothing useful from CCTV, either. The Met are a bit touchy. Bit slow putting the brakes on border controls. But the anniversary appeal brought in some calls, apparently. We’re not being told much but I shall push. Hope to know more soon. Why?’

‘Nothing. Look, we must have coffee sometime soon. I’ll text you.’ ‘So you really are meddling in a live case again?’

‘Moi?’

She laughs. ‘OK. And how’s Sal, before you ring off?’

‘Farting gherkins. Trust me – pregnancy is a smelly business. Seriously, she’s great. Looks beautiful and serene as ever, but the gherkins are bad news. I’ll text you about that coffee very soon.’

She is still laughing as he ends the call, checking the time on the satnav again.

The Ballards’ farmhouse is at the end of a half-mile, single-lane track. It’s like following the yellow brick road: the strange, concrete surface in a sandy colour is raised above the dirt on either side, which puts Matthew on edge wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do if he meets another vehicle coming the other way. There are just two passing places along the whole stretch. Matthew is rather fond of his car, and is imagining the damage if a wheel slips off the side of the concrete platform. Could be very nasty.

So this is what people mean by living off the beaten track.

At the end of the drive, finally, he comes to the house. It’s impressive: double-fronted with a fabulous climber – no doubt magnificent in season, though he is no gardener and does not recognise the species. The inadequate approach widens into a full drive at the front of the house, with a large turning circle, an impressive lawn to the side and a second track leading off towards barns in the distance. Matthew pulls up under a tree opposite the front door and puts his keys in his pocket. No need to lock up out here.

Mrs Ballard answers the door herself, which is a relief. A cliché in her

floral apron. Matthew immediately feels guilty – forced now to look into those eyes.

‘If you’re a reporter, we have nothing more to say until the vigil.’ ‘I’m not a reporter. Could we talk inside, Mrs Ballard?’

Sometimes it works. Confidence and the official tone. As if he has the

right.

‘And you are . . . ?’ Not always.

‘I’m a private investigator, Mrs Ballard, and I’m looking into matters

relating to your daughter’s disappearance.’

Her face changes. From caution through surprise, to a new hope so misplaced that Matthew feels guilty again.

‘I don’t understand. A private detective . . . So why are you involved?’ ‘It would be better if we could talk inside. Please?’

In the hallway, they stand awkwardly as Matthew glances towards the vases of flowers – at least four crowding a narrow table below a large mirror.

‘I wish people wouldn’t send them. Flowers. But they mean well. We’re having a candlelit vigil to mark the anniversary . . .’ She clears her throat. Regroups. ‘So, I’m not quite understanding – Mr . . .’

‘Hill. Matthew Hill.’

‘You’re investigating my daughter’s disappearance privately? But why on earth would that happen? There’s a whole team in London working on this. Did my husband call you?’

‘No, Mrs Ballard. I was contacted by someone else touched by this inquiry, who is receiving unpleasant mail. And I am just trying to help put a stop to that, so that all resources can be directed where they need to be directed. To finding your daughter.’

‘Unpleasant mail?’

‘Would it be OK for us to sit down for a moment?’

She stills herself, apparently considering this, and finally leads him into the kitchen. Another cliché, with its huge blue Aga covered in drying socks. Mrs Ballard appears a little more nervous now, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She does not offer a drink.

‘You haven’t had any unpleasant mail yourself, I take it?’

‘No. Not at all. Lots of nice letters actually, from complete strangers. A few weird ones, admittedly, but never a nuisance or a problem. We show them all to the family liaison officer – Cathy. She’s still regularly in touch. So who’s been getting unpleasant letters? Not Sarah, I hope. You know that she’s in hospital?’

‘Your daughter’s friend from the trip?’

‘Yes. I was there this morning. At the hospital. They’re waiting on tests. Terrible. Terrible. Her mother’s in bits. We all are. As if it wasn’t all bad

enough already. So is that what this is? Nasty letters to Sarah?’

‘No. Not her.’ Matthew looks Barbara Ballard directly in the eye and checks for discomfort. But no. She does not look away. Her eyes just contain the ache of the haunted.

‘I know this will be difficult for you, Mrs Ballard. But this mail – it’s been sent to the witness on the train. Ella Longfield.’

‘Oh.’ Her demeanour changes immediately, along with her tone. ‘That woman.’

‘Yes. I am aware from Mrs Longfield how you feel about her, and there is no intention, I assure you, of adding to your distress by bringing this up. But Ella is keen to try to put a stop to the mail without involving the police. She doesn’t want them distracted. From the main focus. Finding Anna.’

‘Bit late for that now.’ ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugs. Staring at him now. More defiant.

‘Look. I understand it must be very, very tough, Mrs Ballard. But I was in the force myself. There are good people doing their very best, I am sure of that. And the anniversary appeal. TV coverage normally helps to—’

She doesn’t take the bait. ‘Look. These letters – whatever they are. It’s probably better that you talk to my husband.’ She is standing up. ‘He doesn’t always hear his mobile and the signal isn’t always great, but I can try giving him a ring if you like?’

‘There’s no need to disturb him. So you can’t think of anyone who might send unpleasant mail to Mrs Longfield? Anyone else in the circle who has been particularly upset about everything. Spoken up angrily. About her part—’

‘Everyone’s upset, Mr Hill. My daughter is still missing. The vigil is tomorrow. And now, if you will excuse me.’ She is belatedly pulling herself together, overriding her manners as she realises, apparently, that she does not have to speak to him at all.

Matthew knows from experience that this realisation normally morphs swiftly into anger.

He holds out his card, which she takes, hesitating for just a moment before placing it in the pocket of her apron.

‘Have you told the police team about this hate mail?’ Mrs Ballard is still looking him very directly in the eye.

‘Why do you ask that?’ She does not reply.

‘Well. If you hear of anything which you think might be relevant – you will call? Yes?’

She nods.

‘The thing is, Mrs Longfield is going to have to take this to the police if

the mail continues. And that’s not the way she wants to go. She thinks you all have enough to deal with.’

‘Does she?’

Matthew tightens his lips and nods a farewell.

Outside, he can feel Mrs Ballard watching him as he starts up the car and swings through a tight circle before pulling once more onto the impossibly narrow road.

He checks the screen for his hands-free set-up. Nothing from Sal. He tells himself not to look back. To keep the upper hand.

And then he continues, steering ever so carefully and trying very hard to erase the image of Barbara Ballard’s eyes.