If this news had arrived at the beginning of February 2014, she would without hesitation have considered herself to be grieving. At the time, she hadn’t yet realised the extent of the presumed betrayal, and if she had, then she would in all probability have reconsidered. She would have realised she had got the wrong end of the stick, and that the feelings he had said he had for her had probably been genuine. Peter’s death would have finished her off in her state of mind at the time, but then so had what she had mistaken for betrayal—so it made little difference.

But now? Was she in shock? Was she experiencing grief now that news had reached her of her lover’s death?

It had been a long time since he had been her lover. On the other hand, it had been just as long since he’d been a father or husband, but they were grieving—of course they were, aside from what it said in the newspaper. Consequently, Jeanette was grieving too. When Peter had died, Jeanette had been his lover. He had loved her, she had loved him unhesitatingly. The natural thing to do now—in light of what had happened—would be to transport herself back to the situation she had been in then. To forget all the erroneous blame she had cast over his memory, to erase those four years of hatred and bitterness and forgive him. To quite simply resume her original position.

But it probably couldn’t be done. Grief is grief—perhaps she had finished grieving for him.

Murdered, she thought to herself. Peter hadn’t just died—someone had taken his life. Smashed his head with something solid and heavy, before chucking him in a grave so deep that he hadn’t turned up until more than four years later, when the foxes had caught wind of his remains.

It was dreadful. Someone had done that to the man she loved. But why? How had he managed to fall out with someone to such an extent that it resulted in his death? Peter? It was incomprehensible.

Might it be to do with all that money? Had he run off at the mouth? Bragged? No. He had pinned his future—their future—on the six million. He wouldn’t risk it all—not to mention his freedom—by being indiscreet . . .

Over these four years, Jeanette hadn’t thought about the fact that Peter might not be alive. She knew he had left her and legged it with the cash. She had thought so many evil things about him, she had ascribed so many unpleasant qualities to him. Oh, how she had hated him, wishing all the pain in the world on him.