The Girl in the Missing Poster

by Barbara Copperthwaite

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Small Town & Rural; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Noir; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

24 June, 1994 – Nineteen-year-old Leila Hawkins runs from her father’s birthday party into the stormy night wearing her sister Stella’s long red coat. Some say she was crying, others swear they saw her get into a passing car. Nobody ever saw her again. Present – This time every year, on the anniversary of that fateful night, Stella decorates the small seaside town she grew up in with pictures of her beautiful missing sister. But after twenty-five years, is it even worth hoping someone will come forward? Perhaps the upcoming documentary will spark people’s memories by reuniting all the guests who were there the night Leila went missing. As old friends gather and long-buried secrets begin to surface, the last thing Stella ever expects is a direct response from someone claiming they took Leila. They want private details of Stella’s life in return for answers. But as the true events of the night of the party play out once again, who is lying? And who is next? From the bestselling author of The Perfect Friend, this absolutely gripping psychological thriller will keep you up all night and leave you sleeping with the light on. If you loved Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train and The Wife Between Us this book is for you! Everyone is talking about The Girl in the Missing Poster : ‘ OMG… had me madly reading, hanging on to every word, frantically wanting to know what happened next. Boy oh boy, that ending!... Bloody brilliant! ’ Nicki's Book Blog, 5 stars ‘ You MUST read this… mind-blowing… truly astonishing… captivating, engrossing and riveting.’ Blue Pink Books, 5 stars ‘ Fantastic… I raced through it, desperate to know the truth. A brilliant and shocking thriller!’ Lauren North, author of T he Perfect Betrayal ‘ Blooming fantastic… superb… one hell of a rollercoaster ride.’ Beady Jans Books, 5 stars ‘ OMG… gripping… will have you guessing until the very end… WOW… incredible… sure to have you on the edge of your seat.’ Baker's Not So Secret Blog, 5 stars ‘ Wow, and wow again. I really, really loved this… mind-blowing.’ Nicki’s Life of Crime, 5 stars ‘ Hooked and completely gripped from the very first page to the unexpected twist that I definitely didn't see coming.’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars ‘ OMG!!!!!… Awesome. I loved, loved, loved that ending… a head-banger of a twist.’ Blue Moon Blogger, 5 stars ‘ ALL THE STARS!… READ THIS BOOK!…* INSERT STANDING OVATION HERE* ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: February 23, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

The face of a murdered woman stares back at me from the reflection of the high street shop window. One minute I was walking along the deserted pavement with my three dogs in tow, throwing a tired glance at the cheery displays in spring pastels, the next my eyes refocused so that I was no longer looking through the glass but at its surface, turned mirror-like by the setting sun.

There she is. Leila. Dead but alive.

Only it isn’t her. It’s me. Even after all these years, when I see myself it’s my dead sister who looks back. My heart stutters. I turn away from the chocolate shop with its chick breaking free of a giant egg and its promise of an Easter ‘egg-stravaganza’. The woman in the reflection has gone, long gone. Yet I still feel her presence as I turn the corner from the single street of shops onto a tree-lined avenue filled with Victorian town houses, which have all been converted into B&Bs or flats.

At the closest tree, I put my arms around the trunk, struggling to reach the piece of string I’m wrapping round. Pressing my cheek against it until the bark digs in, ignoring the tang of urine floating up from the base, concentrating only on reaching that damn string. Once the MISSING poster is secured, I try not to look at the photograph on it, at the features identical to mine that smile at passers-by. From above me comes a soft hushing, now that there are enough leaves on the trees for them to brush gently against one another in the breeze. It’s the first time I’ve heard that sound since autumn, and I hadn’t realised how much I’ve missed it. Spring is a time for change and new beginnings. Perhaps this will be the year someone sees one of the posters and comes forward to solve the mystery that has haunted me for over half my life.

It’s been almost twenty-five years since my identical twin disappeared without a trace. No matter how much time passes the pain never lessens, only changes tempo slightly so that somehow it has become possible to live with it. It is the pain that drives me to make this annual pilgrimage around my hometown, covering it in pictures of my sister every single year in the run-up to the anniversary of the night she was last seen.

Beside me the dogs pant, bored by hours of having to pause every few metres while I attach posters to lamp posts, trees, noticeboards, whatever is available. With no hands to spare, the dogs’ leads are clamped between my thighs every time. Buddy is starting to pull sometimes, eyes to the air, looking for birds to terrorise. Scamp is Buddy’s opposite in size and temperament, a skinny cockapoo to his bear-like Alsatian-cross, and she has her nose to the floor. No doubt in search of food that will only flare up her allergies and make her itch if she scoffs it. Then there’s Buster, a shi-tzu poodle cross with an unbowable spirit, his curly tail constantly wagging, his proud chest always pushed forward. All three keep looking longingly over their shoulders, clearly wondering why they aren’t going to the beach.

‘Come on,’ I urge, ready to walk on again. ‘We’ll go home soon – apart from anything else, my feet are throbbing. Just one more street, kids.’

Some people might think I’m mad talking out loud to my dogs, but who cares? Their tails wag in unison as if they understand every word. The sight of their happiness puts a smile on my face and gives me the energy to cross the road and trudge on, chased by the smell of salt and vinegar, seaweed, freshly-cooked donuts and stale beer that permeates this seaside town. The dogs get a second wind, now convinced we’re heading to Tower Gardens park across the way. When Scamp realises we’re not, she gives a snort of annoyance while I pull another poster from my backpack.

Will the person responsible for Leila’s disappearance see any of them? I wonder. Have they ever spotted any over the years? Perhaps they dread the anniversary as much as I do, hating the thought of seeing my twin’s picture and having to relive what they did. Perhaps it makes them fear that this time someone will come forward to the police and they’ll end up behind bars. Perhaps guilt will get to them and they’ll finally come forward to reveal what happened to her, if only to put an end to their own mental torture. I hope so.

I want them to rue the day they ever set eyes on my sister, I think, giving a drawing pin a vicious shove and spearing a poster onto a wooden noticeboard.

It’s not much revenge, but it’s all that’s left for me after decades of waiting.

When Leila first went missing, I was more confused than anything.

‘She’s gone. She’s gone!’ screamed Mum. ‘Why didn’t you realise?’

‘I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault.’ I backed away from her grasp, not wanting it to be true, wondering how, after all these years of togetherness, I had no sense of Leila’s loss. Guilt crashing over me like a tsunami, part of me wondering: have I wished this into being?

All the other, bigger emotions broke through the numbness of shock later, but in those first few days simply getting my head around the fact my big sister had disappeared from my life was impossible. She was older than me by mere minutes, but it was enough to make her the boss of me. Every breath I’d taken previously, I’d known exactly where Leila was. Every time I’d turned around, there she was, and vice versa. All that changed that night.

From the very beginning, it was obvious to all in our tight-knit family that something – someone – had happened to Leila. Suspicion fell on everyone. The police scrutinised our parents and even me. We’d been prepared for that. As prepared as you can be.

But I always knew it was my fault that my sister had left our lives. Whatever had happened to Leila, I blamed myself as much as the person who had made her vanish.

I start tying another poster to a tree in my annual penance.

MISSING

Have you seen this person?

Leila Hawkins was last seen on 24 June 1994.

If you know anything, please call…

I smooth a hand over it just as a scream rips the air. I drop the poster, and it hits my toe, bouncing off and rolling across the pavement. Jumpy at the best of times, Scamp leaps back and her lead pulls free from between my knees.

‘Watch,’ I command.

Scamp instantly freezes, eyes on mine. I get her under control again and quickly feed her a treat.

Another scream shatters the peace.

It’s close. Hearing it again, I know exactly what it is and where it’s coming from. Posters forgotten, we all run towards the sound.

Another shrill shriek.

There’s a terrified dog somewhere close, and I need to get to it. We burst into the park, round a bank of trees and the lawned area of Tower Gardens lies before us. In the twilight, I can see a squat man is aiming a white trainer at a French bulldog that shivers at his feet. The poor thing is flattening itself into the grass in total submissive pose.

‘Hey! Excuse me, sir!’ The polite words are forced out in a show of calm I don’t feel. I slow my pace, trying to appear casual. ‘Sorry, excuse me, sir, can I help at all? I don’t want to intrude, but I’m a dog behaviourist and if you’re having trouble, I might be able to suggest some ways of tackling it.’

From the depths of my soul I dredge up a smile. I need to break this man’s concentration on his dog, and in my experience extreme politeness can often shock people in this sort of situation into responding in kind. Not always, but it’s worth a go if it will stop him landing a kick.

He glares at me. He’s only a couple of inches taller than me, short, wiry, balding, with a ferret-face. Seems to take in the middle-aged woman radiating politeness. My sensible walking boots teamed with scruffy jeans. The long-sleeved T-shirt that used to be white but is now grubby from a morning rolling around with dogs, playing and training them for my business before coming out to canvas the town.

Nothing threatening to see here, I will him to think.

Finally, some of the muscles loosen in his face and shoulders, making him look less feral. His dark eyes dart around as if a bit embarrassed.

It’s the smile that gets people, I know. That, and my relaxed body language and easy tone of voice. I’ve spent enough time with aggressive dogs to know what to look for and how to calm them and learned that people are remarkably similar. This guy looks the type to happily kick the crap out of his dog because he knows it’s too scared to fight back, but he won’t pick on a person because he’s too cowardly. With someone like him it’s all about the power.

‘She giving you a few problems?’ I ask.

The dog still looks scared witless, but instead of bending down and protecting it, as I want to, I know the best thing long-term is to win this man’s trust and calm him down – for the good of the dog.

‘Nothing I can’t handle. It doesn’t listen. Stupid thing.’

‘I could help there. Would you be interested in some training lessons?’

‘Get stuffed. I’m not spending any money on that.’ The words huffed out. Chewing-gum breath hitting me: mint with a hint of halitosis and lager. ‘Come on!’

He yanks on the lead. The dog doesn’t move, still hunkered down in fear, so she’s dragged along the grass by her neck as he pulls the lead and continues walking.

‘Hey, sir, there’s no need for that. Why don’t I take her off your hands, eh?’

He turns. ‘Why don’t you wind your bloody neck in?’

‘How about you calm down?’ This is called out by a third person, a man, approaching us. He holds his hands up, but the swagger in his walk is calculated to intimidate, I’m certain. All he’s going to do is escalate the situation.

‘Screw you!’ The dog owner turns. Swings his arm hard, the chain lead arching and bringing the helpless dog with it. She squeals again as all four paws lift from the ground momentarily. I’ve never wanted to hit someone so much. ‘You want a piece, eh? Come on then.’

There’s a huge difference in sound between a dog that’s barking to show off and one that’s warning you to back off or it’s going to rip you to pieces. This man’s tone has just changed. Time for a different tack, I decide.

‘Safe,’ I warn my dogs, while pulling something from my pocket and stepping towards the aggressor. A new shriek rends the air, ten times louder than any animal can make. I’ve set my rape alarm off right beside the man’s ear. The dogs are prepared, thanks to the command word they’ve been taught – the man isn’t and drops the lead to cover his ears. Before he can recover, I scoop the trembling creature up, as light as a bird, and walk away. Buddy, Buster and Scamp are running beside me.

At a safe distance, I turn back. Both men shake their heads, trying to dislodge the tinnitus. The sun is dropping rapidly towards the horizon, the sky above us a blaze of red, and I want to be well away from the isolation of this park before darkness falls.

‘Sir, you need to listen to me. My finger is on the button of my phone, ready to call the police, whom I’ve pre-dialled. I am taking your dog away from you so that a vet can check it over, after which I will contact you to let you know where you can collect her from. I’ll get your details from her microchip.’

‘What? Mind your own business, you stupid—’

‘But I must warn you,’ I continue as if he hasn’t spoken, ‘that if you do take her back, I will be contacting the RSPCA and police with a view to having you prosecuted for what I’ve witnessed today. There may be other charges too, depending on what the vet finds.’

He glares, but his body language had shifted again at the mention of the police. It’s probably not the first time he’s had a run-in with them. He spits on the floor. Shrugs.

‘Do what you want. I don’t want the stupid mutt anyway; you’re welcome to it. More trouble than it’s worth.’

Flinging his arms out to the sides and puffing out his chest in one last ‘big man’ gesture, he turns on his heels and strides off, swinging his arms. Mock confidence: I can spot it a mile off.

The other man stays where he is, looking between me and the person he was ready to square up to. He’s handsome, with soft grey eyes that seem more piercing against his brown skin, and he’s well dressed for around here. This is a budget seaside town that doesn’t attract the wealthy. My knowledge of fashion labels could be written on the back of a stamp, but even I know his coat is popular with snowboarders, and his hat is one of those merino wool ones, because I recognise the label after looking into buying one myself for cold days when I’m busy dog training. When I’d seen the price, I’d instantly changed my mind – it was more than I spent a week on food for me and my dogs.

‘Are you all right?’ His accent is southern and well spoken, but more than that there’s something about him that indicates he’s used to people listening when he talks.

I nod, ask him the same thing. He rubs his ears and raises his eyebrows. ‘I’ll live.’

‘Thanks. For helping. The Good Samaritan thing.’

‘Not that you needed me. I can see that now,’ he replies drily. Or perhaps he’s annoyed but too polite to say. I don’t have time to decide which because the French bulldog is trembling against my chest, not making a sound. She’s in shock. I need to get her to a vet. Repeating my thanks, I hurry away.

Only after I’ve disappeared round the corner do I allow myself to acknowledge that my heart is beating fast and my hands are slick with sweat from the confrontation. Fear always seems to come after action with me.

By the time I arrive home I’m shattered and sink into the sofa, letting my body slide into the cushions moulded to my shape after so many years. Buddy jumps up on one side of me, Scamp the other, while Buster leaps onto the back and settles down with his head beside mine, all three assuming their usual positions. My shoes and socks – bugger, there’s a hole in one heel – are chucked on the ancient pale green Chinese-style rug, and I groan in relief as aching feet slide into a bowl of soothing hot water. I’d been planning to put in some foot soak salts I’d bought myself for Christmas a few months earlier, but squirted hand wash in instead because walking upstairs seemed too far. My head rolls back, neck too tired to hold it up a second longer. There’s a long cobweb in the corner of the Artex ceiling. I wonder how long it’s been there? I really should do some cleaning and tidying, but the dogs don’t complain so there seems little point.

After a few minutes, the silence gets to me. Groping around blindly, I eventually find the TV remote under Scamp’s leg. The sound of people is comforting, even though I still don’t have the energy to move to see the screen.

What a day! I probably shouldn’t have risked confronting that man, but to my mind fear doesn’t stop anything or change anything, and it is about as effective as trying to solve global plastic pollution by tap-dancing. So I don’t worry, I take action. People who’ve had the worst already happen in their life tend to go one of two ways: worry about everything because they realise they’ve no control over anything; or let worry go because they know they’ve no control over anything. I’ve done the latter. I simply make sure I’m as prepared as possible for any situation and then get on with it.

That doesn’t stop the dreams, though. Nothing stops the dreams.

The rescued French bulldog is currently curled in a tight ball in a spare dog bed I’ve dug out for her. She’s been checked over by a vet pal of mine, Farrah, who’s given me a care plan and five different medications for the poor dog to take.

The atmosphere at the veterinary surgery had been more subdued than normal as I’d waited to be seen. A man sat alone in the corner, his body boneless in grief, tears rolling from red eyes down grey cheeks. A glance at the receptionist desk showed a candle burning; they always did this to warn visitors that someone in the surgery was saying goodbye to a beloved pet. The realisation brought tears to my own eyes. It’s embarrassing that I can’t see someone crying without doing the same myself.

Farrah’s door opened and although her eyes slid over mine, she didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, she sought out the man and called him forward with a sad tilt of her head. Beyond her I could just make out what looked like a Staffie, its broad back to me, swaddled in a raspberry-coloured fluffy blanket. Then the man’s back blocked out the scene and the door closed shut behind him. The sound of him saying goodbye, whispered messages of love and promises that everything would be all right, that the pain would be over soon, filled the air through the thin walls. Then sobbing. I buried my hands and nose in the fur of my own dogs and told them how much I loved them and soothed my new companion as she shivered and quivered.

I still had tears in my eyes after the man left. I’d tried to catch his gaze, to convey somehow that I was sorry for his loss and understood his pain, but he’d stumbled past me, thanking the receptionist in a thick voice then leaving.

‘Pet’ doesn’t come close to describing the deep connection of the soul that happens between a person and their animals. They are best friend and family all rolled into one. They never judge or criticise, never steamroller over ideas, and never lie. There is no cruelty there. They simply live in the moment. They are utterly innocent. So how could anyone have hurt this poor little French bulldog? That’s the question I asked Farrah after she’d examined her. Her reply was a long, lost shake of the head.

‘She’s severely emaciated and dehydrated. Recently given birth, too, so she’ll need antibiotics for the infection she’s picked up. She isn’t even microchipped, despite that being the law now – which means she’s probably never been near a vet before. Reckon she’s about three, and has already given birth a couple of times, I think.’

‘Poor mite,’ I replied. ‘She’s only three? Look at her eyes, they’re so sad; she seems so much older.’

‘French bulldogs are fashionable right now. Means there’s an opportunity for unscrupulous gits to provide dogs for people too impatient to wait for proper breeders to have a litter. They’re not even getting the dogs cheap. Paying through the nose doesn’t guarantee it’s a decent breeder. People should just do their homework before they buy from someone.’

Farrah ran a soothing hand over the dog, her fingers bumping over the vertebrae sticking out, before carrying on speaking. ‘A couple of years ago it was pugs – you couldn’t move for pugs with all kinds of health problems: being overbred or raised in terrible conditions. Don’t even get me started on cockapoos.’

We sighed in unison. We’ve been friends since primary school, along with Leila; bonded by a shared love of animals. Farrah had been there for me during the tough first years of losing my sister. Through the period where I’d refused to go out, had barely spoken, and smashed every mirror I came across. No judgement. No special tone of voice. She just carried on like normal. It was Farrah who suggested I became a dog behaviourist, which helped turn my life around. For all that, we rarely socialise. There’s no time for friends – apart from the canine kind.

Now, the latest addition to my fur family watches me from her new bed as I roll my head upright and curl my toes under the soapy water.

‘Bloody hell, that’s better,’ I groan.

My feet are throbbing a little less now, but tomorrow they’ll have to do the same distance again and will probably protest even more. Barely a fraction of the town has been covered with flyers yet, and it will take another three or four days, at least, to get everywhere. The first time I’d done it people had volunteered to help. The local newspaper had done a big front-page splash about it, all the businesses in the area had been proud to display them, and neighbours near and far had put them in their windows. The whole town had asked: Where is Leila Hawkins?

Everyone else’s lives have moved on, though, and now the only person interested in remembering Leila is me.

The landline rings, the dogs leap up, barking, and I jump a mile, sloshing water everywhere. Swearing gently, I hurry to the phone, doing a twisting motion across the carpet in a makeshift attempt to dry my feet. The phone is an ancient beige rotary dial one that was made before push buttons were invented, let alone caller display, so I’ve no clue who it is until I answer.

On picking up, there’s an intake of breath at the other end. Expectant.

‘Is that Stella Hawkins? My name’s Penny-Sue Wolfe, and I’m calling about your missing sister. I think I can help you.’

My stomach does a little flip, but a few deep breaths soon calm me because no leads have ever come to anything so far. Still, I pick up the pen and notepad I keep by the phone, just in case someone should ever call with information – a rarity these days. There’s an undertone of excitement in my voice while asking the woman to continue.

‘I’m reaching out to you from a production company.’ Penny-Sue says a name I barely catch and asks if I’ve heard of it. But before I can say no she’s talking again. ‘We make documentaries for Netflix – you know, the true crime ones? Very popular right now – and I stumbled across the tragic case of your missing sister and, well, it’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?’

The pen goes back in its place. Disappointment sinks through me. This woman doesn’t know anything; quite the opposite, she wants information.

‘From what I understand, you’ve campaigned tirelessly to raise awareness of Leila’s disappearance. That must have been so tough for you – it was, wasn’t it? Honestly, my heart just, oh, it melted when I saw your unending work over years and years. So that’s what made me think this would be a perfect opportunity, and I wondered if you’d like to take part?’

‘Take part?’

‘In a documentary series investigating your sister’s disappearance. Raise awareness of Leila’s case. A tribute to her life, details of what’s known about the case so far. Interviews with people in the know. It might bring some fresh information forward. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary coming up, no?’

‘Um, yes. No, don’t do that.’ I wave at Buddy, who is drinking the soapy water I’ve been soaking my feet in.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean you. What were you saying?’

‘The twenty-fifth anniversary would be the ideal hook, you see – it’s a great excuse for us to revisit this cold case and, hopefully, warm it back up for you. Would the documentary be something you’d be interested in? There isn’t the budget for a payment, I’m afraid, but the programme would reach an international audience. I appreciate it’s a huge, emotionally charged decision, though.’

Screw my emotions; the thought of reaching so many people is all that matters. There’s a potential reach of millions. Around the world. Which means no hiding place for the person responsible. Surely this will lead to the longed-for breakthrough. It’s a shame about the lack of fee, but it doesn’t make a difference compared to how great an opportunity this is. It would have been nice to get something, though. Printing thousands of flyers, phone calls, paying for the Where’s Leila? website’s domain name and upkeep, travelling around the country chasing (admittedly rare these days) sightings, it all adds up, and although I do okay as a dog behaviourist, I’m not exactly rolling in it. I only get by because I’m mortgage free after moving into Mum and Dad’s house, left to me in their will. Technically, it should have been split two ways, as they’d never changed their will and taken Leila out, just in case. They never gave up hope.

This documentary could mean answers. Real, solid answers.

Still I hesitate. It’ll mean in-depth interviews with journalists desperate to find a new angle to the story. They’ll want titbits of information not offered up before, which plunge into my and my family’s privacy. There will be a new wave of weirdos getting in touch, offering false leads and fake hope. Conspiracy theorists and whackos who tell lies about my sister for no other reason than their own entertainment.

None of that matters, though, not in comparison to the possible positives. It’s too good an opportunity to pass on; probably the last chance of a breakthrough because not only has Leila disappeared but so has her story, considered old news not worth repeating. I need to find my sister’s remains. For Leila. For our parents who died never knowing what happened to their eldest daughter.

The pen gets picked up again.

‘Tell me more about what you want.’

My house has been invaded. A small team move in synchronicity, like a murmuration of starlings, around every nook and cranny, plucking and placing my things around to make shots more visually pleasing, taking light readings, and generally being busy doing things I don’t have a clue about. Thank goodness I dusted away that cobweb on the ceiling and washed the dog blankets on the sofa.

I sit in a corner of the living room with my mouth desiccating at the thought of appearing on camera. This isn’t the first time I’ve been filmed, of course – at one point it became an almost regular event – but it’s been a long time now. Fifteen years or so, in fact; the last time any fuss was made about Leila it was the ten-year anniversary, and then it was only the local paper that ran a story.

It’s not just the interviewing itself that’s the problem, it’s catching it on the television or radio later. Seeing myself, hearing myself, is too weird. Because for a moment that makes my heart jump so hard it actually hurts, my body and mind react as if it’s my sister I’m seeing. Despite all these years passing, that will still happen. From whenever the moment of awareness began in the womb, we shared it. We were identical: one fertilised egg that decided to split in two to form a pair, and because of that there seems to be no way of overriding the instinct that my other half must be out there somewhere. It’s a feeling that’s always with me, but seeing myself on television makes it worse.

There’s no point in worrying, though; the only solution is to get on with it, I remind myself, as I’m hooked up to a microphone by a blonde woman, who smiles with neat efficiency. This is Penny-Sue Wolfe. Younger than she’d sounded, and clearly fiercely ambitious and good at her job. She uses terrifying phrases like: ‘I’ll ping you an email’, ‘let’s touch base’, and ‘end of play.’ It’s quite possible she does ‘blue-sky thinking’.

Things have moved quickly since that first phone call just a fortnight earlier. Incredibly so. I’d always assumed television programmes took years to get organised, filmed, then transmitted, but that hasn’t been the case with this production.

‘Most crime docs get made at the last minute so that they’re as up-to-date as possible at transmission,’ Penny-Sue explained when I’d asked. ‘The idea might be bubbling away for a year before but, by the time the channel has signed it off, it could be just a couple of months for us to organise. Pretty much everyone we contacted for interviews has agreed to take part in this one, so we’ll definitely hit the anniversary and optimise coverage. It’s perfect. Don’t worry.’

One person who hasn’t agreed to take part is Mary, my mum’s best friend. She’s been like a second mother to me since my parents passed . . .