‘I didn’t see any note, Becca,’ he says eventually. ‘Hey, do you want to go to Benny’s for lunch?’

‘Did the cops call here?’

‘What?’ Dad splutters, almost choking on his drink. ‘Cops? Here? What are you talking about?’

‘Bert said they called here the other day, what did they call for?’

‘No cops called here Becca, not to my knowledge. Sounds like that Bert fella is losing it, Becca. Seeing things. There were no cops here.’

‘Are you sure?’

Dad puts his beer down and turns his head to look directly at me. ‘What is going on, Becca?’ His pale face scrunches up, looking worried.

‘Nothing, it’s just Bert said…’

‘Stay away from that mad man, Becca. I don’t trust him, never did.’

‘So you didn’t speak to the cops… and you didn’t see a note?’

‘No Becca, I didn’t, now do you want to come to Benny’s or not?’

But before I have time to refuse his offer my cell rings. It’s Bert. Edith is dead.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Pulling the duvet over my head, I close my eyes, hoping to get a couple more hours sleep. I was with Bert until late last night, pouring him whiskey and listening to his pain until eventually he nodded off on the sofa.

I hear knocking. At first I think I imagined it but then it comes again. Someone banging on my door. I check the time: 8.45am. It’s a bit early for Jeff but who else could it be? Turner, maybe? I hope not. Hoping whoever it is will leave, I tuck the duvet tightly around my neck. If it is Turner she will probably leave, presuming I’ve already left for work.

When the banging stops I creep out of bed and tiptoe out to the living room. But when I’m crossing to the kitchen to put the kettle on, the knocking starts again. This time I decide to answer it; no point in prolonging the pain. If Turner wants to speak to me she will get to me somehow.

Checking the peephole, I can only see the warped picture of an empty corridor. Whoever it was is gone. Pulling my bathrobe tight, I unlock the door to glance outside and make sure. The moment I pull on the handle the door swings into my face, knocking me to the ground.

‘You bitch,’ he snarls, his face distorted by anger. Red eyes, burning skin, teeth displayed like a pouncing wolf, he storms into the room. ‘I told you what would happen,’ he says. ‘I warned you.’

Stephen Black is scaring the life out of me. I try to stand up but he walks over, plants a Prada shoe on my hip and pushes me down again.

‘Did you think you’d get away with it?’