She lifts a hand. Her fingers are tremoring as though she’s playing an allegretto tune on a piano. But it’s not nerves that have given her the shakes, it’s anger.

‘Would you like me to get you some water?’

Fran’s rage softens. ‘That’s very kind of you, Phoenix, but I’ll be perfectly all right.’

‘Have you got a coat?’ Tom appears beside her. ‘It’s a nice day but it’s cold.’

Fran plunges her hands into the pockets of her navy blue fleece. ‘This will suffice. Thank you.’

She follows him out of the front door then matches him step for step as he rounds the house and heads towards a gate that leads to an eight or nine acre meadow. The grass is knee-high, speckled with yellow primroses and delicate white snowdrops. She grimaces as she steps into the meadow and her feet sink into the damp earth. The mud’s going to ruin her favourite purple suede boots but she’s not going to suggest to Tom that they turn back. Not yet.

Tom inhales deeply through his nose, holds his breath and exhales noisily. Fran doesn’t turn to look at him. He can indulge in that cleansing breaths idiocy as much as he likes but he’s not going to convince her that he’s some kind of spiritual guru.

But he had convinced Jenna. There was something her sister was desperate to talk about, that windy May afternoon in the school car park. Had she shared it with Tom instead?

Tom runs a hand through the grass, catching the flower heads between his fingers. ‘What do you know about Jenna?’

‘That she killed herself, in Gozo.’

Tom doesn’t immediately answer. He keeps walking, keeps stroking a hand through the grass.

‘Jenna was troubled.’ His tone is softer, less defensive.

‘In what way?’

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. What we discussed is confidential.’

Damn. Bloody client confidentiality. She should have known he’d pull that one out of the bag.

‘But was she suicidal? In your opinion?’

‘She wasn’t—’ Tom catches himself. ‘Do we ever know how someone else is feeling? Really?’

‘I would have thought the leader of a self-help retreat would know exactly how his guests were feeling.’

Tom stops walking. ‘What’s all this about?’

The intensity in his gaze makes Fran’s guts tighten. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not stupid, Geraldine. If that is your real name.’

She’s almost impressed. Has he figured it out? Maybe Jenna told him their mother’s name. Or maybe he’s done some digging of his own.

‘What paper do you work for? From the way you speak and dress I’m guessing The Daily Mail or The Telegraph.’

Horrified, Fran makes a mental note to overhaul her entire wardrobe the moment she gets back home.