Then again, the walls in Winnie Norton’s flat had been white, reflecting back the sparkle of the English Channel. In Frankie’s, all were dark; if not actually black, giving the impression that they were. And all were covered with posters and photographs of pop stars. Carole didn’t recognize any of them, but Jude, having been more aware of the zeitgeist of the times she lived through, identified them as the movers and shakers of Britpop. Oasis, Blur, Suede, Pulp … the in-your-face faces of their members leered down from the walls.

Maybe they reflected a period when Frankie had been a genuine rock chick, but with them time had stopped still. The images now looked as dated – and dating – as Miss Havisham’s wedding dress.

Frankie’s appearance that evening was almost as bizarre. She wore a sleeveless black lace top over a scarlet bra, and tight leggings in a random pattern of psychedelic neon. Her hair was still in its jet-black phase, and the ensemble was rounded off by glittering gold trainers. With all the rings they carried, her ears seemed to have more perforations than a teabag.

She led them silently through the dark hall to an equally dark sitting room. Here again there were more posters and photographs. Jude noticed that they’d all been professionally framed. Frankie cared for her memorabilia.

She gestured them to a black leather sofa. In front of her black leather chair was a low table. On it were glasses, an ice bucket, a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum and a two-litre Coca-Cola.

‘Can I get you something? As you see, I’m on the rum and Coke.’

‘Do you have any white wine?’ asked Jude.

‘Sure. Bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.’ She went through to get it.

Both of them were far too well brought up to say that, though they used to drink a lot of Chardonnay, they had gone off it. While Frankie was out of the room, Carole and Jude didn’t say anything, but they exchanged meaningful looks. Both were intrigued. They’d anticipated resistance, an unwillingness to answer their questions, but here was Frankie making the evening into a social event. Carole’s eyes darted about the room. They settled uncomfortably on the louring face of Liam Gallagher.

Frankie emerged with their drinks. The Chardonnay was served in goblet-style glasses, with an old-fashioned blue and gold band around their rims. She sat down and raised her rum and Coke. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ she said. Like the glasses, the expression felt old-fashioned.

Carole and Jude exchanged looks, settling who was going to speak first, but both were pre-empted by Frankie saying, ‘You want to talk about Bill’s will. Presumably, you heard how I was involved from Tom Kendrick …?’

They made no attempt to deny it.

‘I still don’t feel guilty about what I did. It was the right thing.’