Leanne had planned a remorseless campaign to secure an interview with Phillipa, but it had taken precisely one call. Leanne didn’t explain why she wanted a meeting, and Phillipa hadn’t asked. The hardest part had been agreeing a time in the day that didn’t provoke suspicion in Mal. She had only been back at work two days, and would rather her editor didn’t know exactly how hard she was prepared to push her investigations. Leanne’s next challenge was to remain civil long enough to persuade Phillipa to hand over a seating plan.

It was Phillipa’s husband, Robert, who greeted her at the door before leaving Leanne to wait in the library. It was all very grand, with wall-to-wall bookshelves that required a ladder to reach the uppermost tomes; a room befitting a mansion house set in grounds so vast it warranted a sweeping drive. Taking a seat in a Georgian armchair, Leanne tapped her fingers against the polished mahogany armrest. From the other side of the door, she heard the rattle of teacups. Her hand stilled.

Phillipa glided into the room wearing a satin wrap dress and open-toed shoes that revealed a perfect pedicure. Her auburn hair shone, and her make-up was immaculate, if not on the heavy side. Whatever Phillipa had gone through in the last year, her standards had not slipped. She nodded briefly at Leanne, before returning her attention to the silver tray, which she placed on a reading table next to a stack of newspapers.

Leanne had checked through the papers when she arrived, expecting to find copies of Horse and Hound amongst a collection of broadsheets, but the newspapers were all back issues of the Cheshire Courier. Somewhere in amongst those pages were photographs of Lois, and Leanne hated the idea that Phillipa had them in her archives. Since meeting Joe last weekend, she had been coming to terms with the possibility that a group of faceless company directors were ultimately responsible for the tragedy, but old habits were hard to break. She gripped the armrests hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

Phillipa perched herself on an armchair matching Leanne’s. She crossed her feet and tucked them under her chair before turning her body to face Leanne. She ignored the tray with the fine china tea service. Unlike Claudia, Phillipa hadn’t asked her guest if she preferred tea or coffee, how she took it, or even if she wanted a drink at all. She had taken it upon herself to dictate Leanne’s needs with an air of effortless sophistication and entitlement that Claudia could only emulate.

‘I think we’re ready to start,’ Phillipa said, with perfect poise and control.

Fumbling, Leanne grabbed her phone to open the voice recorder.

Phillipa looked down her nose at the contraption being pointed at her. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t record this.’

Leanne’s arm remained extended. Her breaths sharp and painful.