The note writer was deliberately obtuse but if Jenna didn’t kill herself there are only two possible alternatives – she’s still alive, or someone killed her. Fran lowers her spoon, her appetite gone. Is that why Tom cried in the field earlier? Not because Jenna jumped to her death but because she was murdered? Fran feels sick. Learning her sister was so low she saw no alternative but to end her life was hard enough to come to terms with. When Geraldine rang to break the news, Fran swayed on the spot then grabbed at the kitchen sink to stop herself from falling. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Dead? How could Jenna be dead? She was thirty-seven. She’d barely lived. There had to be a mistake – a breakdown in communication between the Gozoian and British police. Jenna wasn’t dead, she’d wandered off after the sweat lodge ceremony and got lost. She wasn’t suicidal. She was beautiful and young with so much of her life ahead of her. She’d been bubbling with joy and champagne on her thirty-seventh birthday, surrounded by friends in a central London restaurant. ‘It’s my big sister!’ she’d shouted as Fran approached the table. ‘I am honoured!’ She bounced to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor, and threw her arms around Fran’s neck. Fran carefully extricated herself and handed Jenna a present.

She didn’t stay long. Jenna’s friends were rowdy and loud, there was too much talk about crappy ex-boyfriends, the food wasn’t great and Fran had work the next morning. She excused herself after the main course, put forty pounds on the table to cover her share and a tip, and waved her sister goodbye. ‘I’ll see you at Christmas, if not before,’ she told her. ‘Enjoy the rest of your night.’

But she hadn’t seen her at Christmas. They’d chatted, briefly, in the car park at work and the last words Fran ever said to her sister were, ‘can’t it wait?’