“No,” Mrs. Laschamp said, “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Laschamp? I do your mornings.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “She gets a bit confused, you know.”

“So you were perhaps driving along this road at approximately seven forty-five on Monday, the first of September?”

“Well, yes,” the Apron said. “I suppose I would have been.”

“It’s possible, then, that you saw a young female walking along the road, heading west, toward town?”

“Laika Martenwood. Lord, no. I’d definitely remember. No, there weren’t nobody when I came along. I’d have noticed. It would stand out, you see. You never see anyone walking round here.”

“Or any vehicles, a white van perhaps?”

“No, nothing.”

“Mrs. Laschamp,” the man’s voice, “is it possible you’ve seen this girl?”

“Don’t ask her. She don’t go out much, do you, Mrs. Laschamp? She don’t see nobody ’cept me.”

“And Elisabeth.”

“What’s that, Mrs. Laschamp?”

“Elisabeth. My sister.”

“Your sister, Mrs. Laschamp?”

“My sister came. In the morning.”

“In the morning?” The man’s voice.

A brief hesitation, then the Apron’s voice again. “In the morning. Yes, that’s right. I remember now. She had a brief catch-up with her sister a few days ago in the morning, when I was here, doing my hours. I’d forgotten. Elisabeth. Frieda’s sister. That’s right. Lovely lady.”

“Is this Elisabeth?” Mrs. Laschamp said. I angled my head slightly to look through a gap in the banisters. I could see Mrs. Laschamp tapping a finger on a photograph. Time’s up, I thought. I’ll get my bag.

“See what I mean?” the Apron said. “She gets awful confused.” She raised her voice as she spoke to Mrs. Laschamp. “Your sister’s, what, about your age, I’d say, give or take, yes? And that there’s the missing girl, the one what’s been on the news. The one what’s been kidnapped by that Cox bloke, whatsisname, Ian Cox. The builder.”

“Mr. Cox has been released, Mrs. Atkinson.”

“Has he now?”

“Without charge.”

“That can’t be right. You sure?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well,” the policeman said, “thank you both for your time. Do please let us know if you see anything.”

“We certainly will,” the Apron said, “don’t you worry about that.”

***

About a month later, a new person turned up. It was the middle of the afternoon. The bell went, then the knocker. Then I heard the letter-box opening. I lay flat on the carpet at the top of the stairs.

“You in there, Frieda?” a voice said. “It’s me, Linda.”

Frieda opened the door.

“How’ve you been? It’s me, Linda, Ted’s niece.” Just like the Apron, this visitor pronounced each word clearly, as if she were talking to an imbecile. I felt a bit cross. I thought, she’s not deaf you know. Or stupid.

“Hello,” Frieda said.

“You going to let me in?”

Footsteps. I angled my head so I could see this Linda through a crack in the banisters. She was short, with a small turned-up nose and thin blond hair in a bob.

“This is a nice surprise. You look well,” Frieda said. “Would you like tea, perhaps? Or a coffee? Some nice biscuits, all homemade?”

“Yeah, you’re all right. I’m not staying. Just thought I’d better check up on you, what with all that trouble that’s gone on round here.”

“I’m fine, dear.”

“Amazing, the stuff that can happen on your doorstep.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Unbelievable. Anyway. They didn’t take you, then.” I saw the woman looking around, her hands on her hips. “God,” she said, almost to herself, “so much junk.”

“How are you keeping, dear?” Frieda said. “Now remind me, are you still at the shop?”

“I’ll get Steve round sometime, give you a hand clearing up.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Linda.”

“You can’t live like this, Frieda. How d’you know where all the important stuff is?”

“Important stuff?”

“Your papers and stuff. Where d’you keep everything? Your will, for instance? Where d’you keep that?”

“It’s all tucked away, dear. And you needn’t worry about that. I’ve always said, when my time comes, I’ll always look after my family. Would you like a biscuit?”

“No, thanks. How d’you cope?”

“I have help.”

“That exorbitant home help.”