Now

FRAN

Fran is assaulted by a wall of noise as she opens the door to the house. Wine was provided with dinner but, from the bottles and glasses crowded on the living room table, it seems most of the guests brought their own supply. In one corner of the room, Priyanka and the two well-spoken women, whose names she isn’t sure of, are deep in conversation, while Renata, Phoenix and Peter are sitting cross legged on the floor like school children, playing cards on the carpet.

‘Geri!’ Phoenix raises a hand in greeting. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are shiny. ‘Where’ve you been? We thought you’d done a runner!’

‘I was taking a walk.’

‘In the dark? How was the view?’ He laughs as though it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said. Renata titters politely. Peter reaches for a new card.

‘Want to play?’ Phoenix asks. ‘We’ve nearly finished this round. Peter’s spanking us.’

‘Maybe tomorrow.’ Caroline’s missing from the group but so is someone else. Fran mentally works her way around all the people at dinner then pauses as she reaches the man who was sitting to her left. Dark hair, top knot, made a couple of lascivious remarks about Emily, or was it Sophie, one of the young pretty ones. What was his name? Damian! When she was younger she’d prided herself on her ability never to forget a name. She’d zoom in on something about their appearance, voice, or character and tie it to their name. It was particularly useful for remembering the names of the children in a class – Cheryl might have pink cheeks like a cherry, Liam might be a big ‘I am’ and Archie might have pronounced eyebrow arches. She could normally find something to hook a name on. But yes, Damian with the black hair and the devilish glint to his eyes. That was how she’d chosen to remember him.

She heads off to Caroline’s room, knocks on her door and waits. After a brief pause the door opens and Caroline ushers her inside.

‘Where’s Kate?’ Caroline has removed her garish rainbow jumper and replaced it with a navy blue dressing gown. Fran still can’t quite equate this short, rotund middle-aged woman with the investigative journalist she claims to be, but she appears to be fully informed about the situation in Malta, and she obviously has contacts if she knows about the missing witness statements and the blood on the rocks.

‘I left her in the garden. I told her I had to make a phone call.’

‘Excellent, take a seat.’ Caroline gestures at the only chair in the room, a hardbacked chair by the desk, then sits down on the edge of the bed.