Rebecca Lawrence was Jenny’s age, young enough to be Jim’s daughter. Dorothy watched Natalie skip to the living room and tried to keep dark thoughts away. Rebecca was curvy in a way the Skelf women never were. Wide hips, full breasts, round face. If a Skelf woman put on weight she became dumpy, but Rebecca was more sexy than dumpy. Her hair was several shades between blonde and brunette and she was wearing a grey skirt suit, office material. Black tights but no shoes, which felt oddly intimate.

‘Can I help?’ she said. Her accent was at the smarter end of Edinburgh, polite, approachable.

‘Sorry to bother you, my name is Dorothy – Skelf.’

Rebecca’s face tightened at the surname. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk about your husband, Simon.’

‘Simon is dead.’

It sounded like she was still trying to convince herself.

‘So is my husband, a week ago.’ Dorothy touched the wall by the door and a fleck of dust came away. ‘Can I come in?’

Rebecca sighed then stood back, showing Dorothy to the kitchen.

The cabinets and hob were tired, hadn’t been replaced in a long 52time. A couple of cracks in the floor tiles by the fridge. Natalie’s drawings were stuck on the fridge door with magnets, along with bits of paper about school gymnastics and cheerleading.

Rebecca leaned against the worktop with her arms folded. ‘Well?’

‘This is awkward.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘We never met when Simon worked for us.’

‘No,’ Rebecca said. ‘He liked to keep work separate. Didn’t want to bring death home with him.’

Dorothy’s home was full of death. ‘I can understand that.’

‘What do you want, Mrs Skelf?’

‘Dorothy, please.’

Rebecca twitched her nose at that as Natalie came in and tugged on her mum’s sleeve. ‘Can I get a snack, please?’

Rebecca glanced down, her body instantly more open and welcoming. ‘In a minute.’

Natalie wandered off again. Dorothy could hear cartoons in the other room.

‘She’s lovely,’ Dorothy said.

‘She’s a handful, like all kids.’

‘And you’ve brought her up yourself.’

‘What is this about?’

Dorothy looked around. Utensils hanging up, a half-full wine rack, Jamie and Nigella cookbooks. ‘Jim died last week, like I said.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Dorothy waved that away. ‘I’ve been going through some paperwork, Jim’s personal stuff, the business accounts and so on.’

‘Uh-huh.’

The air was suddenly cooler, Dorothy felt her skin prickle with goosebumps.

‘I discovered there have been payments coming from our business into your bank account. Five hundred pounds every month. For years.’53

‘That’s right.’

‘I didn’t know anything about it. Would you mind explaining why?’

Rebecca shrugged. ‘It’s Simon’s life assurance.’

Dorothy rubbed at her elbow. ‘We don’t run a life assurance scheme, Rebecca.’

The use of her name seemed to get her back up, like it was too informal, too close.