Saturday 2 March 1985. 12:00 noon.

Jane Tillotson checked her watch for the third time between Holme Hill bus station and the start of the towpath.

The hands were as unforgiving as always.

She’d promised her mum she’d be at Archer’s Wharf for twelve sharp. “My treat,” she’d said proudly over the phone. Mum had gone quiet for a second, then said, “Oh love, you don’t have to,” which in Bessie Tillotson language meant: Yes, please, but I won’t say so outright.

The bus had been late. Then the driver had stopped for a smoke at the depot. Then Mrs Watson from three streets over had got on and insisted on telling Jane all about her bunions while they crawled through traffic.

By the time Jane hopped off t...

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