After cutting the rope, he laid her on the floor, saw that her chest was not rising and falling with any breath, but that there was the movement of a pulse in her neck, and then he heard urgent words, phrases, people talking to him in his head, saying things he remembered from films and television, a confusion of voices. ‘Chest compression.’ ‘Mouth-to-mouth.’ Raise her head.’ ‘Don’t raise her head.’ ‘Lift her legs.’ ‘One hand over the other and One-two-three-four . . .’ Hours passed and nanoseconds, during which he was following the instructions one after another even though he thought that he was paralysed, was pumping, pressing, listening, trying again, and then the sirens and footsteps running down the path. Greta Tonks was no longer screaming, just standing, chalk white and speechless, her hand jerking towards Olivia on the floor, Kevin Astley on his knees beside her.

‘You cut her down?’

‘It was just instinctive, it seemed like the right thing to do but maybe . . .’

‘It was. I’ll take over now, thanks. What’s her name?’

After watching the paramedics work together, saying little, Kevin got up, meaning to leave, feeling suddenly shaky, needing fresh air, but Greta was in his way, and looked at him in desperation, panic, and also bewilderment, as if she could not make out what had happened, and who these people were, what they were doing to Liv and why she was lying on the floor.

‘They’ll take her to hospital as fast as they can.’ He touched Greta’s arm. ‘You’ll need to go with her, you can leave me to lock up and I’ll keep an eye on the house. Can I get you anything now? Would you like a glass of water? I’ve got some brandy, I could –’

‘Jeff,’ she said, as if coming out of a deep trance. ‘I have to tell Jeff. I don’t know . . .’

He led her to the hall chair, sat her down, found her phone, her husband’s number, rang it. Greta was trembling violently.

‘I’ll hold it, you just talk to him.’

‘Jeff . . . you have to come, now, Liv tried to hang herself, the ambulance is here, just get here.’

Kevin heard the terrible silence at the other end as the man tried to take in what he had been told, a man he didn’t know – Greta’s husband had moved out a month before they had arrived next door. She thrust the phone away from her and was getting up.

‘Hello . . . Greta? Greta, I don’t understand.’

Kevin took the phone, gave his name.

‘Your daughter was hanging from the banister. I cut her down and they’re working on her now, they’re putting tubes in . . . I think she’s still alive. I don’t know any more. I’m sorry, I can’t answer any of your questions but you should come as soon as you can.’