Isabel wanted a man, and she desperately wanted a child. The two went together. But as the years had gone on she had despaired of ever getting what she wanted. Her father would not hear of divorce, and so she was stuck. Sometimes she daydreamed that Henry got hit by one of the new motorcars and died, or that he fell under a train. She knew these thoughts were wicked but his dying was the only way she could escape from this life.

She closed her eyes to stop the tears from falling.

‘Isabel! Are you staying in here all night? My sister has come all the way to visit us and bring the children and you’re not even trying to be entertaining.’

She faced her husband.

‘I see you’re quite enamoured of your little niece, Henry. You take no notice of the boy.’

Husband and wife looked each other in the face and both felt the subtle threat. Henry had the grace to lower his eyes first.

‘She’s a very engaging child. Now come along, Isabel.’

She followed him out on to the landing and persisted with her conversation.

‘And you like engaging little girls, don’t you?’

Henry turned to her on the stairs and whispered under his breath: ‘I’ve been a very good husband to you, Isabel, never raised my hand to you, but you’re sorely near to that now. Now come along, and forget this nonsense.’

Isabel followed him down the stairs and was surprised to find she was smiling. She knew a lot about her Henry, but it could wait until after Christmas.

Molly stood in Barking police station with Briony. Her hands were trembling. A man with large handlebar moustaches who had told them he was Sergeant Harries was writing down the description of Patrick Cavanagh. Briony watched him closely for any tell-tale signs that he was suspicious, but his eyes lingered sympathetically on Molly’s black eye and swollen lip. Sergeant Harries had always had a loathing for wife beaters, even though it was a pretty common occupation. His own mother, God rest her soul, had always told her son that women were like flowers, gentle and fragile, and that they needed careful tending. He smiled at Molly.

‘Was it a bad fight, madam?’

Molly nodded.

‘And had the gentleman been drinking?’

She nodded again, afraid to speak.

‘I take it your husband’s Irish?’

Molly nodded once more.

‘Have you thought of getting the priest out to him? I know many women in your position who’ve got the priest out, and their husbands haven’t raised their hands to them ever again.’

Molly looked at the man in front of her as if he had just arrived from another planet. It was on the tip of her tongue to shout: ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ll ... I’ll try that, officer, when he comes home.’

‘Good, good. Now where does he normally go like?’