Fake news, gothy. Daisy’s birthday? Last week? She attached a photo of the three of them, taken in the pub the week before, their faces aglow from the candles on Daisy’s cake.

Stop whatever you’re doing. There’s a rock night down at the S.U. You’re coming with me.

Not interested.

Please . . .

Begging is undignified.

I WANT A NIGHT OUT, AND NO ONE WANTS TO COME WITH ME!!!!!!!!!

A tantrum. Much more on brand.

Another message followed that.

Sorry. Really I am. I’m out with the medical lot. Try Ed Gemmell. You know he’ll take any excuse to make you happy.

Esther looked with disgust at the little winky face with which Susan had punctuated that sentence and wondered whether her friend was feeling all right.

Susan was very definitely not feeling all right. The friends sitting at a corner table of the pub were very definitely not medical friends and they were very definitely not supposed to be in Sheffield.

It had taken some very quick thinking on Susan’s part when she’d received a horror story in three photos from two of her closest friends from back home:

Tiny little Beebz, her dreads squashed under the hood of a bright orange anorak, jerking a thumb at the departures board of Birmingham train station and looking delighted.

Madeleine, all silk scarves and a Cossack hat, pressing a red-lipped kiss onto a train ticket from Leeds.

The two of them, united, outside a sign welcoming them to Sheffield, looking utterly delighted with themselves and the caption SURPRISE! As the midpoint between where the two had moved since leaving their hometown, Sheffield was the natural choice for a reunion.

One that had been kept secret from Susan, because her friends knew she’d never have agreed to it. That was the problem when people knew you too well—which was exactly the reason Susan had wanted to keep them away. If there was one thing being a private investigator taught you, it was that knowledge was power. No need to share it with more people than necessary.

Still. They were only here for the day.

And Susan was resourceful. Picking up three glasses, she made her way back to their table. No one was going to turn down an all-day boozing session, not when Susan had cracked open her emergency stash of fifties and tucked three of them into her bra.

Daisy stood on the driveway that led up to the House of Zoise and looked at the address on her phone doubtfully.