The holdall with the shovels and torches was still in the back of the van. Archie opened his door and Dorothy touched his arm.308

‘Leave that stuff until tomorrow,’ she said.

Archie hadn’t said a word, not as they filled in the grave, not as they trekked to the van, over the wall at the back of the graveyard, not as they drove over here.

‘Go home,’ Dorothy said. ‘We both need rest.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Archie said, head down as he closed his door.

‘I know.’

A long silence. ‘Should I come into work tomorrow?’

Dorothy was still touching his arm, felt the warmth of his skin. ‘Of course, where else would you go?’

Archie shrugged, a tiny movement. ‘I thought you might want me to go to the police. Or at least, you might not want me here.’

Dorothy took her hand away. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

He hesitated. ‘Is everything all right with Hannah? She sounded upset.’

Dorothy shook her head.

‘Do you want me to hang around?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You don’t deserve any of this, Dorothy. You’re a good woman. You take on others’ troubles, that can get to you.’

‘I’m OK. Or I will be once I have a decent night’s sleep.’

‘Take care,’ Archie said.

Dorothy eased out of the van feeling every muscle cry out. She closed the door and watched as Archie started the van, turned and left. There was no sign of Hannah’s taxi yet. Two weeks ago Dorothy would’ve said Craig wasn’t capable of this. But since then she’d discovered Archie had killed a man who was raping a dead woman, her husband had helped him get rid of the body and covered it up, and predatory men were everywhere.

She knew she had to tell Jenny about Craig and that knowledge pushed down on her with intense force as she went in the front door and began trudging up the stairs, calves burning, hand squeezing the banister, dirt on her fingers, her mind full of dead bodies, heart full of sorrow.309

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard footsteps, and remembered the light in the kitchen. She’d presumed Jenny left it on when she went to bed, but perhaps she’d woken in the night. Dorothy listened again but all was quiet.

She reached the top of the stairs and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Jenny lay in the middle of the floor, blood pooling from her stomach and running along the grooves between floorboards, soaking into the rug and darkening the material. She had her eyes closed and a knife handle sticking out of her gut, the knife Dorothy used to slice pineapple.