Kirsty made tea, pushed the charcoal, pencils, and paper into a pile in the centre of the table, put the mugs down, and sat opposite us. She exuded an easy charm and I relaxed into my chair. I pictured the pigs in their brutally small cages and wondered how she could do that for a living. As if reading my mind, she said, ‘Everyone has this idea of happy pigs rolling around in the mud – which is fine if you’re a hobby farmer and you already have money, like my dad. But to make a living, you have to do it commercially, I’m afraid. And pigs don’t think like us. They’ll often choose to go back into small crates rather than be in a larger area.’

I didn’t want to get into a debate with her, given that her experiment was helping us. She’d convinced herself that what she did was okay, and the way she kept the pigs was entirely legal.

We chatted casually for another half hour, and then Kirsty stood. ‘Stay here if you like. I’ll nip over and see how much they’ve eaten.’ She headed for the door, leaving us in the kitchen.

‘This is the weirdest night,’ Fiona said. ‘I keep seeing Violet’s face in my mind. How could someone do this to her?’

A noise from inside the house. I turned my head. ‘What was that?’

The kitchen door pushed open and a girl walked in. About eleven or twelve years old and wearing pyjamas. Sleepy-eyed with messed-up blonde hair. She jumped back when she saw us. ‘Where’s Mum? I heard a noise.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Your mum’s outside.’

‘Why are you in the kitchen?’ She was holding what looked like a sketchbook in her hand. It dangled towards the floor.

‘Your mum’s just … checking on a pig. She’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Okay.’ Once she’d got over her initial shock, the girl seemed quite unfazed by two strange women in the kitchen. She came and sat at the table with us. Reached and took a pencil and opened her sketchbook, her hair falling forward over her face.

I looked at Fiona, and she shrugged.

‘Would you like a drink of anything?’ I said to the girl.

She pushed her hair off her face. ‘Some milk?’

I jumped up, grabbed a glass from a shelf, and took milk from the fridge, only briefly running a scenario in my head in which the girl was allergic to milk and went into anaphylactic shock in the kitchen.

I put the glass in front of the girl, and looked at the drawing she was working on. A spike of coldness shot through me. It was a drawing of a pig in a tiny individual cage. Lying on her side, her piglets next to her, but separated from her by a barrier.