Henry sees the car approach the house as he is checking the sheep in the farm’s highest and most exposed field. The wind is vicious up here, and he zips his coat right up to his chin, all the while watching the farmhouse below.

This part of the farm has always been a problem logistically. Tricky to access except by quad bike, and Henry has always had a difficult relationship with the quad bike on the hills. He has nearly turned it over more times than he will admit to Barbara. Once on the steepest gradient, he seriously thought the stupid thing was going to topple right over at high speed. Two wheels left the ground and he could feel the whole weight shift. It was just how they tell you. A flash of imagining: wondering how they would all cope when he left them behind.

He hears the echo in his head again. Anna’s voice.

You disgust me . . .

That day with the quad bike had so frightened him that he went straight home and into the office alongside the boot room, and arranged online to increase his life insurance. Later, it caused the most terrible row with Barbara.

We can’t afford more life insurance, Henry. What are you doing that for anyway? Don’t be so morbid.

He promised he would cancel the extra premium while secretly wondering if he should reconsider the offer from a neighbouring farm to take on the awkward fields, which were a better match for their own livestock. But it was a question of pride. Still trying to pretend he was a proper farmer, not a tourist manager.

He stands now watching the car leave, the driver clearly nervous of the access road. Taking it slowly. No, Henry has decided he will not lease out or sell off any more of the land that his father and grandfather worked so hard to acquire. So what if the tourist side makes more sense on paper? The holiday lets. The campsite. He is still a farmer in his heart. And so he is thinking of his few sheep and his cattle, and also the increased life-insurance premium still in place.

He did not recognise the man who was just at the house. Tall and slim, but too far away to make out his face. For a moment Henry wonders if it was

the police and experiences the familiar jolt of adrenaline.

A year on and, unlike his wife, Henry is not waiting for their daughter to turn up alive.

Henry watches Barbara emerge on the doorstep to make sure the visitor has gone.

He is just thinking that he ought to head down there and find out what the hell is going on when there is a bleating behind him. He turns to see two of the ewes slipping on mud at the lower end of the field, sliding precariously close to the stream. Damn. He will have to go down there. Encourage them up to the higher and safer ground.

This exercise, with the ground so sodden, takes longer than he would

like.

Stupid sheep. No brains.

He calls Sammy, who has his tail between his legs. Even the dog hates

this field, looking at him now as if he were mad. What are we doing up here? You normally bring the quad up here.

Finally, with Sammy’s help he coaxes the two stray ewes and the rest of the flock back up onto the higher ground. From there he moves them further still, through the gate to the neighbouring field which, though poor on grass now, is a safer option for the night. He secures the gate, calls Sammy back to his side and finally heads along the adjoining lane, back towards the farmhouse.

It is called Primrose Lane. Anna used to love it when she was little, because of the high hedges. Always keen to collect posies of wild flowers.

Race you, Dad.

Henry closes his eyes to this more welcome echo, and for a moment stands very still. He can picture her in her pink puffa jacket, with her pink bobble hat and her pink gloves. Come on, Dad. I’ll race you back. The posy of primroses in her hand.

Only when he feels Sammy nuzzling at his leg does he open his eyes again.

OK, boy. It’s OK.

He strokes the dog’s head, takes a deep breath and marches back home.

By the time he reaches the farmyard, Barbara has gone back inside.

In the boot room he takes off his wellies, ordering the collie, covered in mud, to stay.

‘So, who was that earlier?’

Barbara’s face is ashen as she comes through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘A private detective.’

‘What the hell is a private detective doing here?’

‘He says that Ella – that flower shop woman – has been getting hate

mail.’

‘So what’s new?’

‘No. Not just stuff on social media. Actual letters or something. To her house. Nasty.’

‘And this is our concern because . . . ?’

‘I think this private detective thought I might have sent them.’ ‘He accused you?’

‘Not in so many words, but that was the implication. As if he was doing me a favour. Warning me off.’

Henry pauses, narrowing his eyes.

‘And before you ask – no, I didn’t send them. Though I can’t pretend I give a damn who did.’

‘Well, I hope you told him not to come back. Do you think we should ring Cathy? Or the London team? Tell them about this?’

‘No. No point. I’ve told him not to come back. He says he’s going to report it to the police himself.’

‘And you didn’t say anything else? Anything silly, Barbara. About me.’ She looks at him very earnestly. Unblinkingly. Cold eyes.

Henry can feel his pulse increasing.

‘No, Henry. I didn’t say anything silly . . . about you.’

Henry sits on the old church pew which serves as their boot room bench. ‘Is Jenny home?’

‘Not yet. She’s gone into town. She wants a new coat for the vigil. Says she wants something warm and smart.’

Henry has made his feelings about the vigil perfectly clear from the off. He is not a religious man. It was the local vicar’s idea. Prayers and candles to mark the one-year anniversary. It had originally been scheduled for Thursday

. . . a year to the day. But once the TV reconstruction was confirmed, they decided to put it back to the Saturday. More convenient for people, too – the weekend.

Barbara lifts up her chin. ‘Sarah’s mother is saying that she hopes we can put the vigil back until Sarah is well enough to attend, but I said that wasn’t a good idea, that Sarah needs to concentrate on getting well. I think we should go ahead as planned.’

‘And you still think this is a good idea? This vigil.’

‘I have no idea, Henry. But people have been kind and they seem to want to do something. Also the press will take photographs, which helps to keep it in the public eye. Cathy says that’s good. To keep it in the public eye.’

‘And what about Sarah? Is she still claiming it was an accident? The pills . . .’

No one takes an overdose by accident, Henry is thinking. He tries to feel more sympathy for Sarah but finds that he cannot.