‘Oh – I’m a neighbour. My house is behind yours.’

‘Uh.’ No further interest. I was too old. Too boring. Neither did she offer to take a message. Just go, old woman. But I wouldn’t. I persisted.

‘When you say out,’ I went on doggedly, ‘do you mean she’s shopping, or away, or—’ I stopped suddenly, mid-sentence: stared beyond her, transfixed. Because behind the sulky teenager, on the hall chair, ornately carved in bleached wood and positioned below an elaborate rococo mirror, was a pale grey suit jacket. It had a fox fur collar. It was beautiful. And familiar. I’d seen it not two hours ago. It was Ingrid’s. My eyes came back to the girl, so very pale blonde, so clearly Nordic. Suddenly I couldn’t speak. The girl looked incredulous at my dumbness. Eventually I found my voice and thanked her, stumbling over my words, mumbling about having to go. Then I turned on my heel and left. I heard the door shut behind me.

My heart was pounding as I made myself walk fast. Escape. Ingrid. Shit, Ingrid lived there. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t take it in. My mind whirred. Suddenly I remembered her saying, when I’d been pretending to be interested in kitchens, that she lived close by. Literally around the corner, she’d said. I hadn’t given it much thought at the time. I’d just been so intent on meeting her, not on her territory, but on mine, at the club.

My brain scrambled on, falling over its thoughts, which were jumbled, racing. Ingrid lived there. Jesus Christ, Ingrid. I carried on walking down another street, to get some distance, and think. There was no reason why Ingrid should have known our houses backed on to each other when I rang her, or when we’d met for lunch, either. All we shared was a high garden wall. In London, that was no call for neighbourliness. But later … maybe she’d realized before me? I shook my head, trying to think. When I’d seen her at the church, earlier, I’d decided she’d have heard about Michael’s death through Millie Taylor. After all, that’s where I’d first met Ingrid, at dinner there. That had been the simple reason for her presence today, which I’d already worked out, but what if – what if she really had seen something that night? And when, belatedly, she had realized it was Michael, had said something to Millie? Who maybe, in a weak moment, and over a couple of glasses of wine, had told Amanda?