‘You wanted a divorce, and he wouldn’t give you one, would he? But that didn’t stop you, oh no.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A neighbour saw something. I know because I rang the police the other day. I wanted to know how the investigation was going – after all, we’ve heard nothing. They couldn’t tell me, of course, but they said the next-door neighbour was helping with their enquiries. Someone else told me that, too.’

‘Mrs Daley? She was away.’

I saw the surprise on her face. Realized, in that moment, she was bluffing. Mrs Daley had moved in a few years ago, replacing the young couple who’d once knocked on my door in concern, late at night, but she’d been in Canada at the time of Michael’s death, visiting her daughter. She’d popped round the following week with some tulips, in sympathy. I watched Amanda regroup.

‘The other one,’ she said quickly.

‘I don’t have another neighbour. They’ve got builders in.’

She thought wildly. ‘Round the back, then.’

She’d already given herself away, but this childish ‘then’, this afterthought, almost a playground taunt, when she’d run out of neighbours, drove in the final nail. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help my mind flying to the house behind, and Amanda saw it happen: she watched as I visualized the tall, brick back exterior, three stories high, so much taller than ours. I used to see the top-floor lights go on and the curtains close at night, as no doubt they saw … what could they see? I forced a smile, my heart beating.

‘You’re mad.’

She didn’t answer me. But she started to smile. A satisfied ‘got you’ kind of smile. I knew she’d made it up, but her wild stab in the dark had been more accurate than she could have hoped. I’d never considered the possibility I might have been watched.

‘Why so guilty, Lucy? You’ve gone awfully pale.’ The waitress appeared and asked if we’d finished. We nodded and she cleared our plates. I waited until she’d gone, thinking fast. When I spoke, I made my voice level.

‘I’m surprised you don’t know about that, Amanda. About the guilt. About it being another stage of grief. After the anger. So many bereaved people feel this way, and I must admit, I’m no exception. I feel terribly guilty. Why didn’t I get downstairs quicker? Interrupt the burglar sooner? Michael might still be alive if I had. And I’ve read about it, about how people blame themselves. It’s well documented. You might even have felt it after your parents died? Wondered, perhaps, if you and Michael had been there, if it might not have happened? Maybe you’d have been in a different hotel, or at least different rooms, had the trip been in the school holidays, say?’