‘I knew it!’ she shrieked. ‘It was that night you were pissed and he drove you home – I could practically smell you on him when he came back! You bitch!’ She made a move towards her sister, who by now was up on her feet, but Esson got between the two women. ‘Then the night he died, you said you’d run out of wine,’ Cheryl went on. ‘You said for me to go back to sleep and you’d head to the late-night grocer’s.’

‘Cheryl, I swear to God …’

But with a roar from deep in her chest, Cheryl Haggard had turned and was stumbling down the stairs. The front door was flung open. A moment later came the sound of an engine starting.

‘She doesn’t know how to drive!’ her sister exclaimed as she followed Esson and Clarke down the staircase.

They got to the doorstep in time to see the yellow Porsche speed towards the still-open gates. Clarke opened the door of her Astra and told Esson to stay with Pelham. She hadn’t even reached the end of the driveway when she heard the sound of a sudden impact. Turning left, she saw the Porsche halfway across the T-junction. A white van had hit it side-on. Cheryl was wedged between the headrest and the airbag. The van driver and his workmate got out of their cab.

‘Bloody maniac,’ the driver complained, looking none the worse for wear. Cheryl meantime had raised a hand to her neck, groggy but conscious. The driver’s-side door had buckled, making it impossible to open. Clarke headed to the other side.

‘Better be insured,’ the van driver muttered.

Clarke opened the passenger door. There were glass crystals everywhere from the shattered window. She reached across, her first thought to drag Cheryl out of there, but then she reconsidered. Some things were best left to medical professionals. The driver’s workmate was already on his phone, requesting an ambulance.

‘Are you okay, Cheryl?’ Clarke asked. There was no blood, but then she wasn’t wearing a seat belt either.

‘I feel sick.’

‘Help’s on its way.’ Clarke’s eyes were on the debris again. It resembled nothing so much as a spillage of fake diamonds. But there was something else on the passenger-side floor, a scrunched ball of paper, three capitalised letters visible: TIL.

She reached down and took it between her thumb and forefinger, unfolding it and turning it the right way up. TILL’S CASINO was printed along the top. It was a receipt for a withdrawal from the casino’s cash machine. Date and time made it clear who it belonged to. She held onto it as she watched Stephanie Pelham come teetering down the slope, wine glass still in hand, Esson in her wake.

‘Oh my God! Is she …? Oh my God!’

‘Best leave her be until the paramedics arrive,’ Clarke said.