‘He’s been before? When was that?’

‘Before you came.’ Her blue eyes sparked in angry remembrance. ‘He as good as accused me of colluding in faking Gerry’s death. As if I would risk my child! And why would I anyway? I was so angry! Sophie threw him out.’ Her knuckles whitened over the spoon she was gripping. ‘He made it sound as if Gerry had done it on purpose – let her fall so he’d have an excuse to cut the runabout loose and take off, leaving Francie to drown . . .’ She broke off gulping. ‘He made me so furious!’

Connor’s hand patted hers and withdrew. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m a bit lost here, I don’t understand any of this. Who’s Francie?’

Tilly blinked away tears before they fell. ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ But they wouldn’t, she thought. Luke and Matt were too loyal, and Sophie would consider it none of his business. But he had backstopped her with the police, providing support when she needed it, so she found herself telling him about the accident in which she’d lost both daughter and husband.

He listened without comment and when she had finished said simply, ‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing more you could say, she knew. The more appalling the event the fewer words there were to cover it.

‘It was my fault,’ Tilly said tiredly. ‘I mean, if Gerry had watched her more closely it wouldn’t have happened, but once it had, I was useless. If I’d bothered to learn about boats . . . but I’ve always hated them. Because my stepfather had one, I suppose. I didn’t know what to do, how to put it in gear, or steer it. If I’d been able to go after them at once . . . But it was dark and the tide was running . . .’ She sniffed and shook her head. ‘I think of her, you know, out there in the dark, all alone, screaming for me. She’d have been so frightened . . . They never even found the runabout. She’d have perished if she didn’t tumble overboard first, and with Gerry, drowned or taken by a croc—’ She shuddered, then sighed deeply, face haunted, the blue-grey stare bent beyond the bright kitchen to a darker horizon.

Connor patted her hand again awkwardly, the fleeting touch unacknowledged. ‘I’m sorry.’ He seemed to feel the futility of the repeated phrase. ‘I still don’t get why the cops are involved, unless’—he gave a deprecatory cough—‘your husband was fiddling his tax or something like that?’