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baby eighteen years ago?’

      ‘She was only sixteen. And Violet was sure her mother was dead. I tried to call Bex, but she hasn’t got back to me. Then I phoned Kirsty, to see if she knew anything about it, but she didn’t. I can’t ask my sister – she died of breast cancer two years ago.’

      ‘I’m sorry about that. We will need to speak to Bex. You say she took your sister’s surname when she went to live with her?’

      ‘Yes. Smith. For all intents and purposes, my sister adopted her. It was much easier with schools and things if she took her name.’

      ‘Okay. We’ll take her contact details from you.’

      ‘Oh Lord.’

      ‘Before we go, we’d like to clarify – the missing girl, Violet, was born in May 2000. When did you last see your daughter before and after that date?’

      A look of shame crossed his face. ‘She stayed here for a month the summer before that. I haven’t seen her since 1999.’

      ‘Is there a reason you haven’t seen her?’

      He swallowed. ‘She doesn’t like coming to Gritton, and it’s hard for me to get away, what with the animals.’

      ‘Why doesn’t she like coming to Gritton?’

      He looked out of the window at the old rose garden. ‘I think she just has a very busy life. She’s a dog trainer.’

      I knew all about fathers who didn’t see their daughters, but a ‘busy life’ didn’t explain what was going on here. I was very keen to meet Bex.

      ‘I love my daughter,’ Tony said. ‘It’s just … shocking the way the years slip by.’ He pointed to a framed photograph on an old dresser. ‘That’s her. That’s my Bex.’

      The photo was small and I had to stand and take a step closer to see it clearly. A slim, dark-haired girl of about sixteen stood next to a huge, spotty pig, smiling with exactly the same radiance as Violet.

      ‘Do you think this Violet might be my granddaughter?’ Tony said.

      Looking at the photograph, he must have suspected as much. ‘We’re investigating that possibility.’

      Tony nodded slowly. ‘Right.’

      ‘What time did Violet leave your house last night?’ I asked.

      ‘About nine thirty. She said she had a job at the abattoir. She had white overalls on, so I suppose she planned to go straight there. But she was agitated when she left.’

      ‘Violet didn’t react well to your conversation?’

      ‘She was upset. Kept asking me who her father might be. I said I had no idea and she didn’t like that at all. I’m afraid she left here in a terrible state.’

7

      Bex – August 1999

      Bex sat in the back of the taxi twisting her fingers and praying the driver wouldn’t start talking again. The closer they got to Gritton, the more her stomach climbed towards her mouth. It took all her energy to clamp her lips shut instead of shouting to the driver, No! Turn round! Take me back to the station so I can go home!

      The driver lifted his chin. ‘Visiting relatives?’

      She didn’t want to talk. She had no idea what might spew out. His previous comments had required no answer. Everyone thinks taxi drivers are racist, don’t they, love? But I don’t mind immigrants. We had a Polish bloke do our bathroom. She’d been able to sit and smile and nod, while her own private mental battle raged on.

      If she tried to speak, would her insides erupt? She risked it. ‘I’m visiting my dad.’

      ‘Do you live with your mum then, love?’

      ‘My mum’s dead.’ The casual lie slipped out. Easier to say than, My mum left when I was three, and went back to the Ukraine. Because what kind of mother would do that?

      ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. When did she die?’

      ‘Thirteen years ago.’ Bex touched the pelican brooch she wore on a chain around her neck. ‘It’s okay. I live with Aunt Janet in Southampton. She’s nice.’

      That seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t ask the obvious question. Why don’t you live with your dad? She didn’t want to answer that one, even in her own mind. There was only one possible answer: Because he blames me for what happened. And she couldn’t handle that.

      She needed the driver to shut up so she could prepare herself. She knew her dad didn’t want her to visit him at all, never mind for a month. Why on earth had she forced herself on him? Her aunt had been against it too – begging Bex not to go to Gritton. But Bex felt a sick desperation to be closer to her dad and Kirsty. A hollowness inside her that she was sure would go away if only she knew them properly. When you’ve already lost your mum, you need to hang on to the rest of your family. When they’d done The Importance of Being Earnest at school, she’d been the only one in her class not to laugh at the joke about losing both parents.

      Her dad and Kirsty had visited a few times – she’d last seen them a couple of years ago – but it had always felt unreal, like her dad wasn’t really her dad, her sister just a stranger. Surely a month together in Gritton would fix that? So why was the prospect so terrifying?

      She’d written instructions to herself in her diary that morning, which now seemed childish and pathetic.

       1. Pretend your dad wanted you to visit.

       2. Get on well with Dad and Kirsty.

       3. Make a friend in Gritton.

      She smoothed her dress over her legs. She’d tried to look nice, so they’d be glad to see her. A new yellow coat, a dress instead of jeans, girly shoes. She peered out of the window. It was dark ahead, despite only being early evening.

      ‘Looks like a storm,’ the driver said, and the rain came pouring down, pounding the taxi’s roof. ‘You’re unlucky – it’s been dry for weeks.’

      The taxi splashed through a puddle and the driver turned the wipers up to maximum. Bex saw the sign, Welcome to Gritton, but the surroundings were hidden by the sudden downpour. She closed her eyes. She had a picture of Gritton in her mind. The dark woods behind her dad’s farm, the rocks standing on the hill like prison guards, the reservoir that drew the light from the sky deep into itself. It must have come from photographs. She couldn’t possibly remember it from when she was three, and she hadn’t been back since.

      The driver interrupted her thoughts. ‘You want me to take you right into the village?’

      ‘Yes please.’

      ‘Some people get dropped here.’

      ‘Could you take me to Mulberry Farm please, on the Bamford road?’ Why would he not want to take her into the village, when rain was coming out of the sky like bathwater down a plug? When Bex didn’t have a raincoat, and had a large case?

      The storm had darkened the sky to graphite. A fork of lightning danced over the gritstone edge above the village, and Bex cringed, waiting for the thunderclap. It came a second later, making her jump even though she was expecting it.

      The lane that led to her dad’s farm had turned to a stream, and the taxi churned up a wave of water on each side as they cruised down. The driver clenched his hands around the steering wheel. ‘This village,’ he muttered.

      Bex told herself it was just the weather. The black skies, pounding rain and cascades of water gushing over the hillside. But she felt it. Something ominous about Gritton.

      It would be okay. She pictured herself in her dad’s kitchen. He’d

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