Page 74 of The Unforgiven

“By drugs. She took an overdose. She was an addict.”

He nodded, the questions around false sympathy in his head now gone.

“It isn’t the same – nothing will be the same. We’ll catch who did this, you know.” For the first time I believed what I was saying. The connection was between the victims, seemingly scattergun apart from social media and all the same age. “Do you remember the name Brooke O’Hara?”

He shook his head. “I knew there was a girl called Brooke. Sonya might remember her surname. Shall I go and get her? She’ll be embarrassed about crying like that.”

“If you would. Do you have any photos from those holidays? That could be helpful too.”

He stood up. “Let me speak to Sonya. We still have Morgan’s room here. We haven’t really changed it – said we’d update it if we ever had grandkids. She had scrapbooks in there that she liked to keep with photos and things in them. Use to keep her occupied for a couple of hours.”

I watched him head out of the living room, listening to his footsteps climb the stairs. I used being on my own to message Wrigley, giving the connection between Morgan, Chelsea and Evelyn. Dolly and Kelly or Brooke were other names mentioned, which made me think about Kelly-Anne, although that seemed too much of a stretch right now.

Both of Morgan’s parents appeared, her mum red-eyed and puffy, her dad solemn and serious.

“Do you want to see Morgan’s room?” Sonya asked. “We should’ve shown it you before. Mike says you think the fact that Chelsea and Morgan were friends as kids means this wasn't random like the papers are saying.” More tears, her words choked.

I chose my words carefully. “There’s possibly a connection between the girls. Brooke O’Hara and Evelyn knew each other. Evelyn had that photo of her and Morgan on her wall. Do you remember Brooke O’Hara?”

“I remember a Kelly, but not her surname. Morgan and Leah’s best friend there was a girl called Sophie – Sophie Davies. She lived in Warrington and the girls stayed in touch with her for a couple of years after we stopped going to Aberwyn. Mike mentioned scrapbooks – there are definitely a couple from the Aberwyn summers. Let me show you.” It was something to do, a way of feeling useful when there was little else that could be done.

I followed her as she went quickly out of the room and up the stairs, heading towards a room up a few more steps that led under the eaves. It was a pretty house, maybe a bit too small for a couple with two teenaged daughters, but maybe too big now. I wondered whether they’d stay here, trying to preserve the memories of when the girls were younger and they could keep them safe, or whether those memories would be dull knives, too painful over time, the same bruise being jabbed over and over and over.

“This is Morgan’s room – was, I mean. I don’t think she changed much. Her bedroom at their apartment looked like this, just more grown up.” She stood in the middle of it, appraising the photos and posters, the shelves full of teenage fiction and some classics, a few stuffed teddies, arranged to make them lookwhimsical rather than childish. There was a bookcase with what looked like A-level revision guides on it, along with some Peter Rabbit ornaments that I would guess were a christening gift.

“It’s a lovely room.” The bed was still made up, a simple white duvet cover with ruffles at the edge. It was very girly. Sweet.

My bedroom as a kid had been a whirlwind of a teenage crisis, clothes in piles, an unmade bed continuously, a spread of make-up, most of it on the floor and a ton of sports clothes in various states of needing washing. Utterly different from this.

“The scrapbooks are here.” She crouched down onto the carpet, looking at the bottom shelf of the bookcase. There was a pile of scrapbooks neatly piled up, the sort of organisation I could only dream of.

I crouched next to her, pulling the top one off the pile carefully.

“Would you like a cup of tea while you’re looking through them?” Sonya stood suddenly and I understood that this was now too much.

“That would be lovely. I won’t be too long in here.”

“There’s no need to rush. We’re both off work and we have nowhere to be. Just a funeral to plan that we shouldn’t have to. You will catch him, won’t you? The man who’s doing this to those young women.” She choked up again, backing away towards the door.

“We will.”

She left without asking how I took my tea, needing air, needing to be someone else, or the person she was a couple of weeks ago when both her daughters were safe and well.

I looked through the scrapbooks, beautifully put together with photos and stickers and cute little doodles, drawn in different coloured gel pens. I expected that once they’d have been scented, and that would’ve been part of the fun.

Morgan had also been fastidious in leaving captions below every picture – where it was and who was in it: her, her mum and dad, Leah, grandparents and someone called Lauren.

And there it was, three scrapbooks in. Photos of Aberwyn on the beach there, Morgan with her sister, and then with friends, all neatly labelled underneath with their names.

Chelsea

Brooke

Evelyn

Dolly

Sophie