It came down to the basic human desire to be wanted. She knew she had some power over Craig, she could still turn him on. She was still an attractive woman. She’d got used to being invisible to younger men, as if they saw right through her, as if she was a ghost. That was partly liberating, no longer getting hassle or abuse, not having to put on a show. But at the same time there was a niggle at the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be done with all that, because that meant giving up on love, which meant giving up on life.

She walked over to the fridges and looked at the names written there. Each one a life lived, larger or smaller, better or worse, none of it mattered now. Ashes to ashes, and all that. She thought about her own funeral, how she might be summed up. Who would even be there? She was a ghost already. God, no one ever warns you about the existential angst that comes with hangovers in your forties.

She thought about Mel, down on the slab at the city mortuary. Her devastated parents and brother. She thought about how she would feel if it was Hannah, and felt tears come to her eyes almost immediately. She swallowed hard and rested her head against one of the fridge doors. The cool metal against her forehead was calming, and she was aware of the weight of her own eyelids. Her 187body sagged, gravity pulling her down into the earth, where she would be one day, sooner or later.

She had to get out of this fucking funeral home.

She had an idea, and walked through the workshop to the garage, picking up the key for the body van on the way, then got in and started driving. It was fifteen minutes to Inverleith, but she got snarled in the usual traffic on Lothian Road and Charlotte Square.

She parked in East Fettes Avenue outside Peter Longhorn’s house. She knew the number from the whiteboard back home. She sat for ten minutes wondering why she came here, what she should do. She had to feel useful, had to do something, but Thomas had made it clear the police were handling the investigation now, since they found Mel.

She was about to go and ring the doorbell and wing it when a taxi pulled up next to her and Peter got out, handing over money. He went straight up the path to the house. The taxi drove away as he put his key in the door, but it didn’t open. He looked confused for a second, tried again, then removed it and took a step back, looked the house up and down as if it had insulted him. He rang the bell and knocked too. Waited. Tried them both again. Stepped back again.

‘Emilia,’ he shouted.

No response.

‘Emilia.’

Doorbell again, this time constant, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.