Harriet sits in her armchair, staring at the front page of the newspaper. Specifically, she is staring at the photograph on the front page of the newspaper, because she knows the woman’s face.

Granted, it has been a long time, but Harriet is good with faces. Her sharp memory was one of the reasons she was so good at her job. She rarely forgot the face of a parent or child once she’d had a conversation with them. People like it when you remember them. It doesn’t matter what age they are, the neediness is there. From young children right along the line to very old people, everyone likes to think they’re memorable, interesting enough for you to remember their name or ask how they enjoyed their birthday party, weeks after they told you the date.

So Harriet has no problem recalling the conversation she had with the woman who is now plastered all over the front page of the local newspaper. She’d had several conversations with her, in fact.

The woman had told Harriet back then that her name was Mary Short, but the tagline under the photograph quotes another name: Joanne Deacon.

It’s a demeaning photograph, snapped in a hospital bed. In order to get a clear shot of her face, it looks as if someone removed her respirator, which lies discarded on the pillow next to her. No doctor would have allowed the invasion; the press must have found an underhanded way to get hold of the image.

Her grey skin tone and sightless, glassy stare remind Harriet of a dead carp she’d seen as a child on the banks of the River Trent. It had been clutched in the hands of a fat, grinning fisherman with ruddy cheeks and a wispy comb-over and, for some inexplicable reason, it had made Harriet feel desperately sad.

She scans the printed columns.

As she suspected, the article states that the photograph was leaked anonymously, that the image and details of what the woman had done were posted on social media, just before midnight yesterday. The full report is inside.

Harriet turns to page two and her breath catches in her throat. All the words, pictures and headlines scream at her, but do not make an ounce of sense. For a few moments she can neither breathe in nor out, staring at the quarter-page image in front of her.

She coughs and splutters, gulping in air. The page begins to tremble as her hands buckle beneath the tremor.

She is looking at a picture of Evie.

Harriet tries to tear her eyes away but can’t. Through blurred eyes she registers the odd shocking word but is still unable to put it into context in a sentence.

Abducted . . . missing . . . alive . . . dead . . .

It says that Joanne Deacon worked with Toni Cotter at a Hucknall-based property agency. A property agency!

Harriet closes the newspaper and casts it aside, where it slips from the arm of her chair and onto the floor. She sits in the armchair and stares into space.

None of it makes any sense.

Mary Short – no, Joanne Deacon – had struck up a conversation with Harriet outside the school one day. Ms Deacon had flattered her, told Harriet that she had a wonderful way with the children in her care.

She said she worked as a school improvement officer with the local education authority and had been tasked with recommending outstanding staff at St Saviour’s Primary.

She’d worn her ID on a lanyard, displayed around her neck. Of course, Harriet hadn’t inspected it properly, that would have appeared rude.

Joanne Deacon told Harriet that her work was confidential. She’d asked Harriet not to mention her involvement to any of the other staff and Harriet had readily agreed, privately hoping her name might appear on the list of exemplary members of school staff that Joanne had explained would form part of her forthcoming report to the regional educational committee.

That had been their first conversation.

Over the next week and a half, Harriet had bumped into her in the supermarket, at the bus stop and in the chemist, where she waited patiently at the same time every Friday afternoon whilst her mother’s prescription was made up.

On each occasion, they had conversed.

Harriet hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, she’d been too busy revelling in someone official taking an interest in her opinions and educational ethos. Joanne Deacon had a good command of language. Harriet remembered she had this way of bringing someone around to her way of thinking, making them feel special. The woman had been so easy to trust.

One day, the two of them had begun talking about some of the children in Harriet’s small library group, including Evie Cotter. Then, somehow, they had gravitated to just talking about Evie – and Joanne Deacon began to ask all sorts of questions about Evie’s mother and her home life. Harriet had been frank and unguarded in her responses. After all, Miss Deacon was a professional woman herself, a highly regarded employee of Nottinghamshire County Council.

Harriet’s eyes blur as she considers her naivety. She leans her head back, the tweedy firmness of the chair cushioning her skull. When she lifts her face up to the ceiling and thinks about the room on the third floor and what it holds, her heart begins to race and she grapples for a few moments with a sudden and powerful wave of nausea.

When it recedes, she tries to consolidate what has happened as simply as possible, so it is straight in her own mind.

Harriet had allowed herself to be persuaded to do something that went directly against her better judgement.

As far as she can tell, there is only one way to put it right.