‘I’m not a journalist,’ she says. ‘I’m a teacher. ICT. Ask me anything about data logging, digital imaging, networks or—’ She catches herself mid-sentence. By rushing to defend herself from Tom’s accusation she’s inadvertently blown her cover story. She’s supposed to be a widowed ex-receptionist. But it’s too late for her to back pedal now.

Tom shakes his head dismissively. ‘If you were a journalist you’d have prepared a cover story, including swatting up on your computer knowledge.’

‘Ah, but there’s a difference between swatting up and practical knowledge. Talking of which, your website is antiquated. Whoever built it did a terrible job of the CSS, the layout is all over the place and it’s not responsive or accessible.’

‘Okay.’ Tom holds up his hands. ‘Okay. Fine. Answer me this then; why are you, an ICT teacher, so interested in what happened to Jenna?’

Fran’s ready for this question. It’s the one part of her cover story that she hasn’t forgotten. ‘She was my physiotherapist. When I turned up to an appointment the reception told me that Jenna had died, unexpectedly, during a wellness retreat abroad. Then I saw the papers.’ She takes a breath, her mind working frantically as she tries to reconcile her cover story with her outburst earlier. ‘The reason I spoke up earlier, during the speech, was because … because Jenna should be remembered. She died in Gozo, too.’

The tension in Tom’s face and the suspicion in his eyes softens. ‘Of course,’ he says, his voice rich with compassion. ‘Of course she should. And I’m so sorry I didn’t mention her. I suppose … I suppose I didn’t want the new guests to think too much about suicide. Many of the people who come to see me are really very troubled.’

To Fran’s horror, Tom places a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezes it. ‘Outwardly, you seem very together, Geraldine, but that’s an illusion, isn’t it? You lock your emotions away and they boil within you and then explode in angry outbursts. It’s how you push other people away.’

I don’t use anger, Fran thinks. I am angry. People are imbeciles. You in particular.

‘Gosh,’ she says. ‘You’re very insightful.’

Tom smiles down at her. It’s the type of gaze a parish priest might give an elderly parishioner offering up a soggy Victoria sponge.

‘It would help give me’ – Fran clears her throat – ‘closure, if you could tell me the circumstances leading to Jenna’s death.’

Tom’s hand falls away from her shoulder. ‘I’m not sure that would be—’

‘Please.’

He puts his hands in his pockets and his gaze drifts to his feet. ‘She was … troubled, as I said. But she was’ – he swallows – ‘a good person, a very good person. Funny, strong, opinionated …’