‘This is the man you found outside?’ Lucy whispered. She could now see what we’d all seen in his blackened face: that Green Boots had died a strange, violent death. And it only further reinforced that Lucy, in suggesting the inescapable Drying Room, had pretty much served Michael up on a platter.

Sofia nodded. I knew she was trying to console Lucy, not persecute her, by showing her the facts. But it wasn’t working. All Lucy could see was blame.

‘I can’t be here anymore.’ Lucy stood. ‘I’m sorry, Ernest, Erin, for saying that stuff – everyone. I’m so sorry.’ She walked out.

No one really tried to stop her leaving. Crawford gave a half-hearted chase out into the foyer, calling to her to come back, but she shrugged him off with something acidic that I only half heard but sounded like ‘You’re the boss’, which clearly implied he wasn’t. The rest of us peered around the doorframe to make sure she headed away from the Drying Room, where Michael still lay, just in case. She trudged up the stairs, possibly to the library. Possibly to the roof to try to get reception. Not a cigarette. You and I already know she’s smoked her last.

CHAPTER 29

‘Sofia.’ Audrey said gently once Lucy had gone. These were the calmest words she’d spoken all weekend, so we hung on them. ‘My son is dead, and I would like to know why. We’re all upset, and we’ve all got someone we’d like to blame’—I’m not sure if her gaze flickered to me, or if I imagined it—‘but the more information we have the better. Because I would like to find whoever did this. And if they’re still here, I would like to hurt them.’ She took a breath, found control. I’d mistaken her tone for calm, but it was, instead, ice. ‘So, would you mind explaining, for some of us, how a leaf-blower and a bag of coal can kill someone?’

‘Ash, actually, not coal. It’s the flaky stuff,’ Sofia said, and she couldn’t hide a tiny lilt of excitement in her voice, pleased to finally be asked to espouse her theories. ‘Because there’s so many fine particles, it forms a kind of cement in your lungs when you inhale it. You basically suffocate from the inside.’

My mother thought for a moment, then twirled a hand, the way someone might waft theirs over a glass of wine, mimicking the imaginary cycle of stirring the ash. ‘So, you’d have to breathe in quite a bit of this, right? For it to hurt you?’

‘Yes,’ Sofia replied. ‘A fair bit. Less in a room without fresh air.’

‘She’s asking how long it would take,’ I added, also interested. It was almost imperceptible, but I noticed a curt nod of acknowledgement from Audrey.

‘Oh. Hours.’

‘Hours?’ Audrey asked aghast, her façade slipping.