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‘What happened that day – the day of the accident?’

‘Now that I do remember – it’s not something you’re likely to forget, is it? The hotel had laid on a beach party. They did it every Friday. Games for the kids and ice cream, and then a barbecue for the grown-ups in the evening. All perfectly nice. Some of the children were playing with the inflatable dinghies and I remember seeing Sharon and Jessica together in one with an octopus on the side. It was all part of the theme, I suppose. Anyway, sometime later, one of the young waiters started asking where they were and it turned out no one had seen them for a least half an hour. And then, Lord, all hell broke loose. Mrs Wiley was screaming and Mr Wiley was shouting at the staff, and then someone said they thought they could see the dinghy out beyond the swimming area and Mr Wiley had torn off his shirt and run into the sea before anyone could stop him.’

She shakes her head, remembering.

‘A lot of the younger dads went into the water after him, and that was just as well, because he only got a few yards out before he was completely out of breath. Someone had to help him back. It was two of the waiters who got out to the dinghy. Only by that time both the girls were in the water.’ She sighs. ‘I guess you know the rest.’

‘How were the Wileys afterwards?’

‘What do you call those things that won’t die? Zombies. That’s it. Zombies. They looked like their whole world had caved in. Back then, you didn’t get the sort of support the travel companies offer these days, so those poor people just trailed about in the hotel till their flight home. Turning up to meals and not eating. Sitting in the lobby staring into space. It was pitiful.’

‘And Sharon?’

‘Oh, she was very shaken. I was there when they brought her back to the beach. She must have swallowed a lot of seawater because she was horribly sick. But after she came back from the hospital, I don’t think I saw either of her parents speak a word to her. Apart from once. There was some activity or other in the hotel – I’ve forgotten what – and Sharon must have wanted to take part, because suddenly, in the middle of breakfast, her father stands up and bellows at her that she should show some respect – that it’s all her fault and he wishes she’d died instead of Jessica. And then he threw down his napkin and walked out. That was the last time I saw them.’

She sighs. ‘That poor girl. That poor, poor girl. I often wondered how things turned out for her.’

There’s a silence, and then suddenly Pauline edges forward in her chair, looking at the two of them in open suspicion. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I can’t believe I didn’t realize – Sharon – that’s the name of that woman whose daughter has gone missing. Daisy – that’s her, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here.’

‘Well,’ begins Anna, but Pauline’s still speaking.

‘You don’t think it was an accident at all, do you? You think she killed her sister, and now she’s killed her little girl – ’

‘We don’t know anything for certain, Mrs Pober,’ says Baxter. ‘It’s an ongoing investigation – ’

‘I know what that means, young man. It means you think she did it but you can’t prove it. And now you want me to help tip the balance against her.’

‘We just need to have all the information we can,’ says Anna gently.

Pauline gets to her feet, visibly trembling. ‘I think you’d better go now.’

It’s an uneasy exit for all three of them. At the front step, Anna turns to offer her thanks, but the door is already closing.

‘Mrs Pober? Can I ask one more thing – it’s not about Sharon, I promise.’

The door opens a little, just a little.

‘You said the beach party had a theme. Something to do with the decoration on the dinghy?’

Pauline nods, but she’s on her guard now. ‘It was the Octopus’s Garden .’

‘Like the Beatles song? So there were fish decorations, shells, seahorses – stuff like that?’

‘That sort of thing, yes. And the younger children could dress up if they wanted.’

‘Really?’ says Anna, taking a step closer. ‘It was fancy dress, was it? What was Jessica wearing?’

***

27 July 1991

Hotel La Marina, Lanzarote

The girl wakes early on the first morning of the holiday. Everyone else is still asleep. She slips out of the small roll-away bed she is sharing with her sister and dresses quickly, careful not to wake her parents. Her father is lying on his back, snoring, and her mother’s face looks fretful, even in sleep. She picks up her yellow flip-flops and closes the door quietly behind her. She hesitates for a moment, trying to remember which way the stairs were. There’s a lift too, but she’s never used one of those, and she’s frightened of getting stuck in it on her own. Her father made them walk up three flights when they arrived last night, huffing and blowing and stopping at every turn on the stair.

When she gets downstairs, the reception area is deserted. There’s a sign at the desk with a bell to ring in emergencies, and somewhere, some way away, there’s the sound of tables being laid for breakfast. But that’s not what she’s looking for.

The first two doors she tries are locked, but at last she is out. At last she is free. When she gets to the beach she takes off the flip-flops and goes barefoot, tentatively at first, but then quicker, running, towards the sea. The sun is still new, the air is still fresh, and she alone owns this whole big beautiful day. The huge blue sky, the sparkling waves nibbling and foaming at the flat damp sand. She hasn’t been so happy for years – not since her sister was born. Not since everything changed.

She closes her eyes and puts her face up to the sun, seeing the redness inside her eyelids, feeling the warmth on her skin. When she opens her eyes again, there’s a woman walking slowly along the edge of the water. She has a little girl with her, in a pink floppy sunhat and a little flowered dress. The woman is holding the child carefully by the hand as she jumps the waves, squealing and splashing. When they draw close enough to speak, the woman smiles at her. ‘You’re up early.’

‘I was too excited to sleep. I’ve never been abroad before.’

‘It’s so nice to have the beach to yourself, isn’t it? We live just round the bay. We love the early mornings.’

The woman bends down to the little girl and straightens the hat. The little girl puts up her arms to her mother and the woman lifts her, high, high into the sun, then kisses the laughing delighted child and swings her round and round and round in the glittering air.

The girl watches, barely breathing, like one gasping for a glimpse of heaven.

At last the woman sets the child gently back on the sand and they continue their walk. They’re almost out of earshot when the girl finds herself calling out to her, ‘What’s your little girl’s name?’

The woman turns and smiles again as the wind rises for a moment and catches at her hair, and her long earrings, and her white cotton dress.

‘Daisy,’ she says. ‘Her name is Daisy.’

***

‘So it is your contention, Mrs Mason, that your husband was responsible for the death of your daughter?’

Sharon folds and unfolds her hands in her lap. She has no handbag, not today.

‘His gloves were found in that skip. They had her blood on them, and his DNA.’

It’s 9 January 2017, Oxford Crown Court, number two. The sky outside is dark and rain is splintering against the skylight above. Despite the fact that the room is freezing, the public gallery is packed: it’s the first time Sharon Mason has taken the stand. She’s wearing a plain navy dress with a white collar and cuffs. It’s probably not her own choice.