After the police leave, Dan heads off to the gym for the second time. On this occasion, he doesn’t return with the police after a minute. Olivia has an afternoon shift at the café. She says she’ll be fine and I get the sense she wants to be by herself. I don’t blame her.

With no weekend work appointments because of my suspension, I have two whole days with nothing to do.

I plot a drive to the hotel, making sure to follow something close to the route by which I returned in the early hours of Tuesday morning. It’s a brighter day, crisp with a blue sky and a low sun. Perhaps it’s that, or maybe it’s something within me, but the country lanes don’t hold the fear they did just days ago. I pass the spot where I spoke to the farmer and pull onto the side, craning to stare towards the field. The hole is still in the hedge, as are the tyre tracks veering from the road across the verge. I should continue on but stop the engine and get out. If the farmer from the other day were to return, he’d no doubt have some questions about why I’m here again – but there’s a part of me that feels drawn here. I walk along the verge, knowing I’ve already done this in the dark and the light. There are weeds and nettles; grass and small shrubs.

No blood.

No trace that there was anything, or anyone, out of the ordinary other than me.

I get back in the car and don’t stop again, following the route to the dual carriageway and then back onto more leafy lanes as I go around Leamington Spa. The roads are wider here, with large houses and long driveways interspersed with signs for farms.

The Grand Ol’ Royal is one of those hotels that has taken an age-old building and pushed it into the twenty-first century. There are business meeting rooms, wedding packages, a spa, two pools, and any number of other amenities. The board at the front is advertising a wedding fair for next weekend and a kids’ fun day for the one after that. There’s a long driveway lined with vast lush lawns on either side. A pair of gardeners are up ladders on the far side, trimming the hedge with a sheet underneath. All this is familiar so far. There are fountains on either side of the drive as I near the hotel itself and then I follow the signs to the car park at the side.

It’s packed.

There are arrows for the ‘Martin’ wedding party pointing in one direction and another for the ‘James’ marriage directing people the other way. There’s no space in the main car park, so I continue following the gravel until I find a spot in the furthest corner, shielded from the sun by the shadow of the hedge.

The hotel lobby is a vast expanse of extravagance. Lord knows how I persuaded Graham to let me put a night here on expenses. The floor is an echoing, solid marble, with dual staircases winding up on either side. The whole area is full of people milling around in suits and fancy dresses. High heels click-clack on the floor and there’s a staccato chatter of people talking over each other.

The line to check in is a good dozen couples long, each with small suitcases or bags at their feet. There’s no point in waiting for someone at the reception desk – and I’m not sure that’s the best thing to do anyway. Instead, I do what everyone else is doing – mingle. I’m not as fancily dressed as most but I’m smart enough in a work skirt and top. I certainly don’t stand out.

Weddings are a great place for freeloaders to get away with it because a vast majority of the guests only vaguely know everyone else anyway. I don’t involve myself in anyone else’s conversation but I listen in to plenty. I’m hoping to jog my memory of what happened on Monday night but, aside from the check-in desk, the lobby brings back nothing.

As for the reception desk, I remember checking in because my keycard didn’t work the first time and I had to return to get it reprogrammed. There was no line then – but it doesn’t do much to help me recall what happened.

I follow the hall to the lifts, where there is a bank of three. It’s the noise that brings back the memories. There’s a steady ding-ding-ding as the elevators slot into place and then set off again. Like being in a seaside arcade. On quiet days, when the noise echoes through the corridors, it must drive the staff bonkers.

The hall leads to a sign that directs people to ground-floor rooms to the left and the bar to the right. I head towards the bar. The floor is still an echoing marble, with vast paintings on the walls, showing Britain’s green and pleasant land.

It’s here that something starts to buzz at the back of my mind. There’s a painting of a ship being battered by the wind a little offshore. A lighthouse is in the background but its beam is searing in the opposite direction. It’s fuzzy and unclear, like a dream I can barely remember, but I know this painting. I walked past it and stopped to look at some point.

Further on and the bar is more like a bank converted to a fancy wine bar than it is any sort of traditional country pub. The ceiling is high, making everything echo more than usual and there are floor-to-ceiling windows that show off the lavish lawns beyond. There’s a small chapel-like hut in the centre, where some of the wedding guests are starting to gather.

More still are mingling in the bar, of course. It’s more relaxed here; jackets on the backs of chairs, handbags strewn on tables.

I order myself a sparkling water so that I can at least fit in with everyone else who has a drink in hand. The barman is young and slim in a tight waistcoat. He’s friendly but busy, drifting from one person to the next, multitasking with dazzling ease.

With no other ideas, I do a lap of the room. There’s a small dance floor in the corner but the rest of the space is filled with tables and chairs. Everything is familiar but it’s unclear and muddied in my mind. As if someone has told me about this place, rather than I’ve been here before.

It’s only when I stop and check the menu that I have another spark of familiarity. I drank here – but I ate here as well. The tortellini is described as ‘delicious filled rings of handmade pasta’ and I know I laughed at that when I read it days before. The beef burger is ‘luxurious minced rump in a toasted brioche bun, with ripened plum tomatoes, leafy lettuce and chipped potatoes on the side’.

Chipped potatoes? They’re called chips.

It goes on and on. A hungry punter can’t order rice, but they can get ‘gently simmered granules of wholegrain Arborio’. A pizza has, ‘a hand-milled wholemeal base, with seasonally sourced sundried tomato sauce’.

Someone, somewhere has a lot of time on their hands.

It’s only reading this menu when it dawns on me that I laughed about this with the man I met.

Stephen.

His name had escaped me until now but it suddenly appears in my mind as if the letters have been painted there. How did I forget? We laughed at the salad with its ‘lovingly shredded lettuce’, saying how there would be a frustrated poet sitting in the kitchen delicately tearing leaves while Spandau Ballet played in the background.

It’s only now that I realise how little I remember. It sounds obvious but I’ve assumed all week that the last thing I could recall was being in my room and settling down to sleep. I do remember that – but only as a flash. There’s an enormous gap before that.

I remember drinking at the bar, then eating at a table by the window. Stephen and I could see the outline of the chapel through the dark but couldn’t quite make out what it was. I had the tortellini and Stephen ordered the risotto. Both meals took a long time to arrive but we only noticed because the waiter mentioned it. The time had flown as we’d chatted and laughed. We returned to the bar for another drink, we headed for the lifts – which I came to remember – and then… I don’t know. I’m back in the room, with that flash of the tight sheets – but that’s it. In between the bar and bed, there must be at least an hour that I can’t remember.

The tables are a little too close to each other but I weave between them until I’m at the bar once more. I take a stool this time, sitting and closing my eyes.

Listening. Breathing.

The hum of voices provides a constant buzz alongside the clinking of glasses and the scratch of cutlery. There’s a low undercurrent of innocuous, inoffensive elevator music. It’s nothing memorable as such – but I feel myself drifting back to the other night. It’s the same melody; gentle and pleasant, like being rocked to sleep.

‘You all right?’

I jump, opening my eyes and momentarily disorientated as someone touches me on the arm. I wince away, taking in a man in an ill-fitting suit. He’s older than me, perhaps early fifties, with his top button undone and his tie loose.

‘Steady on, love,’ he says.

‘I, um…’

‘You were wobbling there.’ He nods at my glass of water. ‘Bit too much of the hard stuff?’

‘Something like that.’

He swigs from a pint of dark amber liquid. ‘Gotta pace yourself on days like this. Long night ahead.’

The man laughs at his own joke, though from the way he’s rocking on the stool, his pace seems to be going hard and going early.

‘Which wedding are you with?’ he asks.

I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding ring. The only reason I still wear it is that it’s too difficult to take off. I’ve tried washing-up liquid with dental floss but it’s stuck hard. Ellie told me something about putting a hand in a tray of ice and having a go but I’ve not got around to it.

‘I’m here with my husband,’ I reply.

He grunts something I don’t catch and then adds, ‘Right you are then’, before shuffling to the other side of his stool.

Through the window, I can see one of the wedding parties beginning to form by the chapel. The groom and best man are making nervous small talk with the registrar at the front as the trussed-up guests try to figure out where they’re going to be sitting.

I take that as a sign and head back through to reception, which is decidedly emptier than it was before. A lone bellboy is busy wheeling various cases up and down the floor, the wheels creating something close to an atomic boom. I dodge around him and head to reception, where the queue has disappeared to nothingness. A twenty-something man in a sharp grey suit is busy typing on a keyboard but looks up and smiles with practised charm when I approach the desk.

I get the full-on ‘madam’ treatment, before I explain that I stayed here on Monday night.

‘I made friends with someone in the bar,’ I say. ‘Another guest. He left behind his petrol station loyalty card but I didn’t realise until it was too late. His name’s Stephen. I was hoping you might be able to help me track him.’

The receptionist has one of those smirks that has a barely concealed ‘get stuffed’ directly behind it. He smiles as he explains that he can’t do anything, throwing around words like ‘privacy’ and ‘data protection’ liberally.

‘Is there no way you can check?’ I say. ‘I’m only asking for a name, perhaps a telephone number…’

A shake of the head. ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

‘Just his name?’

‘I wish I could.’

I bet he does.

I dig into my bag and remove my purse, delving around for a scruffy folded-up twenty. ‘I don’t suppose this would help, would it?’

His name badge reads Peter and his eyes narrow as he takes in the allure of the purple paper. He checks over his shoulder and then snatches the note away. He types something into the computer and then frowns.

‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Stephen.’

‘There wasn’t anyone here called Stephen staying on Monday.’

He twists the monitor so I can see. There’s a list that’s sorted by first name which jumps straight from Sonia Somethingorother to Terry Thingamabob. No Stephen, regardless of the spelling. No Steves, either.

‘Do you want me to check another name?’ he asks, the data protection act seemingly long forgotten.

I shuffle on the spot, trying to think. He definitely said his name was Stephen. He even said ‘with a P-H’ when I asked about the spelling. I’d forgotten but the memory is now as clear as if it had just happened.

‘I suppose he could have checked in on a different day…?’

‘This is a list of everyone staying here on Monday, regardless of which day they checked in. Was he definitely a guest here?’

I remember that, too. He said he was on the third floor. I didn’t ask about a room number but he told me he had a good view of the gardens.

‘Is there CCTV I could check?’

His smile loosens at this. ‘I really don’t have access to that.’

A woman appears a little behind, wielding one of those massive cases that somehow still count as hand luggage. It’s the type of bag someone spends half an hour trying to shove into an overhead bin on a plane as everyone’s waiting to take off. She hefts it along in front of her with an enormous sigh.

The receptionist glances to her and then gives me his best get stuffed smile. It’s even better than last time and, on this occasion, I take the hint.