If it comes out, will he still love me?

I am not sure. And it makes me feel sick.

If it were only Owen’s love I was risking, I would take the chance. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But it’s his career, too. The disclosure forms you sign when you join the Civil Service are long and detailed. They ask about gambling habits and finance, about drug use and, yes … about criminal behaviour. They are looking for levers – things that could be used against you, to blackmail you into releasing information you shouldn’t, or to force you to commit fraud.

They ask you about your partner. They ask about your family and friends – and the higher up you get in the organisation, the more questions they ask, the more sensitive the information becomes.

The final question is basically – is there anything in your life that could be used to bring pressure to bear on you? If so, declare it now.

We have both filled these forms out multiple times – me every time I have changed department, Owen each time his security clearance in the Home Office has got higher. And I have lied on them. Repeatedly. The fact that I lied at all is grounds for dismissal. But if I tell Owen the truth, I make him party to the lie. I put his neck on the line as well as mine.

It was bad enough when what we did was only concealing a body. But if I’m an accessory to murder …

I close my eyes, shutting out the darkness and the rain that beats on the carriage windows. And I have the sudden feeling that I am out on the salt marsh, picking my way over an unfamiliar track. But the ground isn’t firm beneath me – it’s soft and wet, and every false step I take, I am straying further from the path, and sinking deeper into the salt-soaked mud. Soon I may not be able to find my way back.

‘Did you say Salten, dearie?’ says a cracked, elderly voice, and I jerk awake, Freya startling convulsively against my heart and yelping crossly.

‘What?’ There is drool at the corner of my mouth and I swipe it away with Freya’s muslin and blink at the old lady sitting opposite me. ‘What did you say?’

‘We’re just coming into Salten, and I heard you tell the ticket inspector that’s where you’re getting off. Is that right?’

‘Oh, God, yes!’

It’s so dark, I have to cup my hands around my eyes as I peer through the rain-spattered window, squinting at the dimly lit platform sign to be sure I’m at the right stop.

It is Salten, and I stagger upright, grabbing for bags and coats. Freya wriggles sleepily against me, as I wrestle the door open one-handed.

‘Let me hold the door,’ says the old lady, seeing me struggling to get Freya into her pram and the rain cover buttoned down.

The guard’s whistle is blowing peremptorily as I bump the pram down onto the wet platform, the rain lashing at my coat. Freya’s eyes open wide in affronted horror, and she lets out a squawking yell of indignation as I sprint down the platform, coat flapping, hoping to hell that Kate is waiting.

She is, thank God, along with Rick, the engine running, the windows of the taxi steamed up with their breath. And this time I remembered to pack the car-seat adaptor, so I can strap Freya in as he starts up the rutted track towards the village.

There is no room for conversation, over Freya’s increasingly inconsolable howls of wrath at being woken from a warm dry sleep by this chilly rainy assault, and although her wails pluck at my skin like claws, part of me is glad that I don’t have to make small talk with Rick. All I can think of are the drawings, Ambrose’s letter, the roses, the blood on my hands.

Back at the Mill, there is water on the floor, puddles beneath the door jambs. Rain has forced its way in through the rickety windows and is pooling on the uneven boards, and around the window frames.

‘Kate,’ I try, over the top of Freya’s wails and the sound of the waves against the jetty, but she shakes her head, points at the clock which shows almost midnight.

‘Go to bed,’ she says. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

And I can only nod, and take my sobbing child up the stairs, into the bedroom where we stayed, where my sheets are still on the bed, Luc’s bed, and I lie there on my side, listening to her frantic snorting and gulping slowly calm themselves … and I drift into sleep.

I WAKE EARLY, lying still while my eyes adjust to the light in the room. The room is bright, in spite of the early hour, but it’s a cold light, chilly and diffuse, and looking out over the Reach I see that a sea mist has drifted in up the estuary to wrap the Mill and its surroundings in a fine grey gauze. There is a cobweb across part of the window, jewelled with microscopic droplets, and I watch it for a while, reminded unsettlingly of the clinging nets in Salten village.

The air is cold on my arms, and I pull up the blankets and roll over to check on Freya, uncharacteristically quiet in the cradle beside me.

What I see makes my heart seem to stop in my chest, and then restart, thumping at a hundred miles an hour.

Freya is not there.

Freya is not there.

Before I can think I have stumbled out of bed, shaking as if I’ve been given an electric shock. I’m searching in the covers of the bed – stupidly, for I know I put her down in the wooden cradle last night and she’s not even crawling yet, let alone able to climb out and crawl into bed.

Freya. Oh Jesus.

I am making little whimpering noises in my throat, unable to believe she’s not here, and then I burst out of the room and down the corridor.

‘Kate!’ It’s meant to be a shout, but panic makes the word stick and choke in my throat, and it sounds like a strangled cry of fear. ‘Kate!’

‘Down here!’ she calls, and I stumble down the wooden stairs, barking my heels, missing the last step and staggering into the kitchen so that Kate looks up from where she’s standing at the sink, her surprise turning to concern as she sees me standing there, wild-eyed and empty-armed.

‘Kate,’ I manage. ‘Freya – she – she’s gone!’

Kate puts down the coffee maker she has been rinsing and I see, as I say the words, her expression turning to a look of … can it be guilt?

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, and she points to the rug behind me. I whirl round – and she’s there. Freya is there. Sitting on the rug with a piece of bread in her fist, and she looks up at me and gives a shriek of happiness, throwing the mushed-up toast onto the rug and holding out her arms to be picked up.

I snatch her up, my heart thrumming in my chest as I press her to me. I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kate repeats guiltily. ‘I – it didn’t occur to me you’d worry. I must have woken her up when I used the bathroom, because I heard her when I came out – you were still asleep and I just thought –’ She twists her fingers. ‘You always look so tired. I thought you’d like a lie-in.’

I say nothing, letting my racing heartbeat subside, feeling Freya’s small pink fingers tangle in my hair, smelling the baby-smell of her head and feeling her weight in my arms … oh God. It’s OK. Everything is OK.

My legs are suddenly weak with relief and I sit on the sofa.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kate says again. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes. ‘I should have realised you’d wonder where she was.

‘It’s OK,’ I manage at last. Freya pats my cheek, trying to make me look at her. She knows something is wrong, she just can’t tell what. I force a smile as I look down at her, wondering what’s happened to me, what kind of person I am becoming, if my first reaction on finding my child gone is to imagine she’s been snatched. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Kate. My voice trembles a little, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my breathing. ‘I don’t know why I panicked so much. I’m just … I’m kind of on edge at the moment.’

Her eyes meet mine in rueful acknowledgement.

‘Me too.’

She turns back to the sink.

‘Want a coffee?’

‘Sure.’

Kate puts the machine on the hob, and as we both sit there, listening to the silence before it begins to wheeze and hiss, she says, ‘Thanks.’

I look up, surprised.

‘Thanks for what? Shouldn’t I be saying that?’