A sombre mood hung heavy in the farmhouse after another night with no news. It was just Shona and Claire sitting in the kitchen, waiting for developments, waiting for something to happen. Maggie had been taken down to the police station to view CCTV footage following an earlier appeal on local TV news. A woman had called the police to say she’d seen a girl matching Rain’s description.

Claire had offered to accompany her, but she’d wanted to go alone. If she was honest, she was relieved – partly because taking Marcus there yesterday had hammered home the gruesome reality of the situation, plus she still couldn’t shake off what Callum had said. It was his day off and he’d taken Amy to the cinema after Claire suggested it would do their daughter good to get out of the house, away from the police visits, the whispered discussions, the anxious mood. Jason was out searching again and Nick still hadn’t come back from London – some problem with the restaurant, he’d briefly told her yesterday, and she hadn’t questioned him. His tone had signalled she shouldn’t ask.

The most disastrous reunion in history, she thought, resting her chin in her hands.

‘Lots of villagers have joined in the search party that Jason organised,’ Shona said. ‘He’s given out all the flyers Greta made.’

‘Everyone’s being amazing,’ Claire replied. Jason had certainly launched himself into the search to find Rain. His apathy when Lenni went missing had been so noticeable that Claire found herself making excuses for him. ‘I think it’s guilt,’ she’d told Maggie as they’d waited for news of Lenni years ago. ‘It’s like he’s pretending nothing’s wrong, as if Lenni will come back from the shop at any moment.’

While the rest of them were slaves to the investigation, their lives consumed by what had happened, Jason carried on as normal. When anyone mentioned Lenni, he changed the subject.

Claire watched her mother put the kettle on for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last three days. She admired her stoicism, her poise, her determination. ‘It’s almost as if Jason’s trying to make up for…’ She stopped. There was no point upsetting her. But there was something else troubling her. ‘Mum, there was a…’ Again, she couldn’t finish.

Shona glanced at her before sloshing a dash of boiling water into the pot to warm it. The tea-making was an avoidance ritual, Claire knew, as her mother set out a tray with two cups and saucers, teaspoons, biscuits, a bowl of sugar – even though neither of them took it – and poured milk into a small china jug. She spooned leaves into the pot, filled it up from the kettle and slipped on a knitted cosy. Claire felt like smashing the whole lot onto the floor.

‘Let’s sit outside,’ Shona suggested. ‘I think we need the air.’ Once they were seated, she poured and passed Claire a rattling cup and saucer.

‘Mum—’

‘Biscuit, darling?’ She offered the plate of shortbread. Claire felt nauseous, holding up her hand. A butterfly fluttered between them and, for a moment, she was mesmerised by the flash of colour. Then she had an overwhelming urge to catch it and keep it safe in a jar, screwing the lid on forever and ever – or to grab it and crush it in her fist. She began to cry.

‘Oh, darling.’ Shona leant over and rubbed her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to turn out fine. They’ll find Rain safe and well, I feel sure of it.’

Claire looked up from behind the curtain of her hair, wiping her face on the back of her hand. ‘But Mum,’ she said, blowing into the tissue her mother gave her. ‘How can this have happened twice to the same group of people? We’re all being so reserved about it, not mentioning the similarities but… oh God, Mum…’

‘What is it?’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but someone left me a phone message on Friday.’ She paused. ‘One of those messages. I told Jason, but stupidly I’d deleted it by then. I was so angry and scared, I didn’t think.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It was horrid.’ She took a breath. ‘It was a really bad line and hard to tell if the voice was disguised or not.’ Claire hiccupped a sob, sipping her tea. ‘He said… he said…’ This was the bit Claire would never be able to delete, the words that had been replaying over and over in her mind. ‘He said, “I know where she is.”’ Claire stared at her mother, waiting for reassurance, but Shona was silent, blank-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything to you, Mum. I should have just told the police and let them deal with it.’

Her mother gave a small nod, stilled by the news.

They’d had many such calls over the years, and all turned out to be hoaxes. Lenni’s story was all over the national papers for several months. In the early days, the police took them seriously, followed up as best they could. Once or twice they’d made a token arrest or cautioned the pranksters. Some had called repeatedly, claiming to have news of Lenni, photographs of her in another country, some saying they knew she was dead, that she’d been buried in a shallow grave. The most distressing calls were from those abusing Shona and Patrick for killing her or, at the very least, neglecting her. But over the months and years, as the case grew colder, they’d dwindled almost to nothing.

‘Just don’t tell your dad,’ Shona said, staring into her cup.

Back then, Patrick had been the one to field the calls when they’d come, often at supper time, leaving them with no appetite. Several times the phone had rung in the dead of night and they’d wake, not knowing if it was real or a part of a nightmare.

Then there were the letters and anonymous messages – some from genuine well-wishers, but many from crackpots and despicable people who had no sympathy and too much time on their hands. They received contact from psychics and, on one occasion, someone actually came to the farm claiming to be able to find her with their supernatural powers. Mystical spirit photographs, tarot readings and intricately drawn-up astrological charts arrived in the post, some stating exactly when and where Lenni would be found. One psychic believed that Lenni was being held in a cave. She was so convincing that Shona spent the next three days scouring the coastline for her daughter. Patrick thought she was as mad as the woman herself. But when a letter came saying Lenni’s body had been disposed of in a rubbish dump, they made the decision not to open any more. If any slipped through the net, they were disposed of on the fire.

‘No, let’s not tell Dad,’ Claire agreed quietly.