‘I know what my husband was like,’ she says bitterly. ‘He was a sucker for a sob story and despite the unpleasantness that you’d brought into our family he always had a soft spot for you. He told Sean that the whole thing would be done discreetly, with the minimum disruption. You could stay in the house and pay a minimal rent as and when Sean got back on his feet financially.’

My eyes fill with tears as I remember Harry sitting in the visitor’s room at the psychiatric unit. All those years later he had helped me again.

‘The estate agent told me that a company called BH2 Properties had bought Larkfields,’ I say, my brain rebooting. ‘So who are they?’

‘The name is made up of mine and Harry’s initials,’ says Barbara, watching me stealthily from the other side of the table. ‘We thought the buyer needed to remain anonymous.’

‘Well, I can understand Harry wanting to help,’ I say. ‘But what about you? You’ve always hated me. Surely you would have been glad to see the back of me.’

‘That’s true,’ she says, her lip curling. ‘Though to be honest I rather liked the idea of owning the place. Of course, after the accident there was no way I was going to help you any more. I told Sean he’d need to give notice. Though it turned out he was only too happy to leave after what you did to him.’

What is she getting at? Is she accusing me of harming Elspeth? I feel scared and fragile, just like I did when I was fourteen and my mother marched round to Ketton House to confront Ben.

‘Do you know where he is?’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Sean.’

‘No, I don’t,’ she says. ‘As far away as possible from you I’d imagine.’

‘You know he was having an affair, don’t you? With a woman called Freya Nielssen.’

Barbara stares at me for a moment then her face breaks into a horrible smile.

‘Why are you smiling?’ I cry. ‘For God’s sake, do you think this is funny?’

She leans forward, her hands clasped on the table in front of her.

‘I am Freya Nielssen,’ she says, her glassy green eyes hardening.

‘What?’

‘That is my official name, Freya Barbara Nielssen,’ she says with a flourish. ‘Though I always preferred Barbara. I never took Harry’s name when we married as I didn’t much care for it. Cosgrove is such an ugly English name.’

‘So it was your name on the estate agent’s papers,’ I say. ‘You sent my things to the storage facility?’

Now the words on the boxes make sense. There is only one person who sees me as a bitch round here and she is sitting right opposite me, her face distorted with hatred.