Fran turns to look back at the house. The lit windows look cosy and inviting and she thinks longingly of her duvet and a warm cup of tea. She scans the garden, squinting into the gloom, then taps a button on the side of her watch. 9.11 p.m. It would have been helpful if her note writer had specified a time. She could be out here for an hour, maybe more, and, in her haste to evade the others, she completely forgot her scarf.

‘Fran?’ She jumps as the bushes to her left rustle and a short, squat figure walks out of the trees.

‘Joy?’ There must be some kind of mistake. But she said Fran, not Geraldine.

‘Caroline Harding.’ Joy holds out her hand, returning Fran’s handshake with a firm grip. ‘I won’t make this too long or we’ll arouse suspicion, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m a freelance journalist and I’ve been investigating the circumstances of your sister’s disappearance.’

Fran is so astonished by Joy’s transformation – her simpering voice replaced with a strong, confident tone, even her posture is different – that it takes her a moment to register the name.

‘Caroline Harding? I recognise that name. You were one of the journalists who hassled my parents,’ she says sharply. ‘And now you’ve followed me here.’

Her family were inundated with media requests after Jenna’s disappearance was ruled a suicide – by phone, email and then at home. Fran appointed herself the gatekeeper. Each time there was a knock on the front door she would fly through the house and throw the door open. Then, in her best teacher voice, she’d bellow at the waiting reporters that they should be ashamed of themselves for intruding on her family’s grief.

Eventually, with no fuel to add to the fire of ‘The SoulShrink Death Circle’, the journalists finally gave up. All apart from Caroline Harding, whose name appeared in Fran’s personal email inbox day after day after day. When Fran blocked her, Caroline rang her at work. Fran threatened to call the police. ‘It’s harassment,’ she’d barked down the phone, ‘plain and simple and I will not allow you vultures to pick over the bones of my sister’s death.’ She never heard from Caroline again. Until now.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ Caroline says, sparking a cigarette. ‘Believe you me, I couldn’t have been more surprised when you walked into the lounge earlier.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Look, Fran.’ Caroline glances back towards the house. ‘I know you don’t trust me and I understand why but I genuinely want to help. Jenna didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.’

Fran stares at her, stunned into silence.