“I was reading the other day—” Connie hadn’t stopped talking since she’d got up that morning—“about this commune of women. They left the fellas, took the kids and lived in this field in caravans. Nice big ones, you know, like the ones you get at beachside holiday parks. The kids all went to school and lived normal lives, they just came home to these . . . static homes, they’re called, aren’t they, not caravans. Somewhere in the Lake District, I think it was. Or maybe the Peak District. Some ‘district’ anyway. They all loved it. Everyone was happy. No arguing. No asking for permission to do ordinary things like go for a drink with your mates. And definitely no backhanders for opening your gob at the wrong time. No men, you see, Angela. I mean, I’m sure there’d be a bit of lesbian activity going on, but so what? I often used to think that Ester and Julia had the right idea. Even though Ester was—is—a bitch, she’s still not as bad as most men. What d’ya think?”

“Do I think women-only communes are a good idea? Course I do! What’s not to like? Apart from the sex, which, let’s face it, we could get anywhere—and from someone who wouldn’t expect you to do their washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning and child-minding.”

Connie giggled to herself. She knew Angela didn’t mean any of that really, because Angela had a good man in Rob. A great man, in fact. She was very lucky.

Once Connie had stripped her bus seat of its old foam padding, she dragged a green sack out from behind the sofa and began layering bundles of £20 notes into the now-empty space.

“Leave a gap on top for a bit of new foam,” Angela reminded her. “They need to be comfortable enough to sit on.”

She’d worked out that if Connie was stuffing each coach seat with £50 notes, then it could hold around £250,000, and each seat-back could hold around £200,000. If she was stuffing the seats and backs with £20 notes, then it was more like £100,000 per seat and £75,000 per seat-back. This wasn’t exactly accurate, but Connie liked it when Angela sounded definite. It made her feel safe.

PC Adam Franks and PC Tanya Daly were soaked to the skin. They were standing on the doorstep of one of the identical houses in the estate where the old Grange had once stood, waiting for the doorbell to be answered. At the window, the curtains twitched and three children pressed spotty faces against the glass. They wore pajamas and their lounge fire roared away behind them. Eventually, a woman opened the front door and stepped out onto the front porch, wrapping her cardigan round her body.

PC Franks introduced himself.

“Apologies for disturbing you again, Mrs. Stanhope. I know you and your neighbors have already been questioned about the fire—I’ve got your original statement—but I’m hoping that you’ll look at a couple of photographs for me, please.”