‘Any time, dear. Perhaps you should think of getting away for a while, after the funeral. Some space by yourself, somewhere quiet. It’ll do you the world of good.’ They walked to the door together, and just as she stepped outside, she added, ‘The Tupperware is dishwasher safe, if that helps at all.’

When she was gone, Heather served up a large portion of the bread pudding, reheated it, and then poured herself a large glass of wine. It was early enough that the sky was still light, but caught within its trees and bushes, the house itself was already growing the darker shadows of evening. Deciding to take her cue from this, Heather changed into her pyjamas and sat on the sofa with the bowl of pudding, a pile of notes, and her laptop next to her. She ate steadily, getting through another serving and another large glass of wine, until she began to feel increasingly dozy. Soon, it was difficult to focus on the notes from her talk with Pamela Whittaker, and the pages of news websites – all emblazoned with images of Fiona Graham – were increasingly hard to look at. Heather yawned hugely.

She checked her phone and saw that there were a few missed messages from Nikki, but the thought of attempting to type out any sort of answer added to her rising sense of nausea. Instead, she chucked her phone back onto the sofa – it bounced onto a cushion – and she stood up, a decision she immediately regretted.

‘Shit.’ Her stomach and the room seemed to be rolling in opposite directions. Two glasses of wine wasn’t normally enough to make her drunk, but she had had only a sandwich for lunch. She chalked it up to low blood sugar. ‘Early night, I think.’

Uneasily she made her slow way upstairs to the bathroom. Blinking at her reflection in the cabinet mirror, it was possible to see why Lillian had been so concerned; her skin was chalky white, and there were dark smudges under her eyes, like elderly bruises. Even her hair was greasy, strands of it stuck to her forehead. Grimacing, she went to grab her toothbrush only to find it wasn’t on the sink where she habitually left it, nor had it fallen onto the tiled floor. Assuming she must have chucked it in the medicine cabinet that morning, distracted by thoughts of meeting up with Pamela, she swung the door open – only for something to flutter out into the sink.