‘Of course.’ I want to ask why. If it was an accident, why all the questions? If it was suicide … I really don’t want to think about that. Not when I was the last one to speak to her. Not when I was the one who resurrected the story that destroyed her family. ‘Any time, bye now,’ I say instead, and disconnect the call.

It’s after six when I decide to bite the bullet and call in to Fran. Sunday evening is not an ideal time but I don’t like how we left things yesterday morning, after I asked her about Eddie Hogan and her friend Zara. It’s not so much that I owe her an apology, but perhaps an olive branch. Her expression when she answers the door is a mix of surprise and irritation, and it makes me want to turn on my heel and go home. But I stay.

‘Fran, I’m sorry about yesterday, when I was asking about your friend Zara. It’s none of my business. And it can’t have been easy having her dad gossiped about. I saw first-hand how it upset Cora, and maybe didn’t appreciate it would have been every bit as hard for your friend.’

Fran appraises me for a moment, then nods – an unspoken and not terribly clear acceptance of my olive branch, I think.

‘I discovered something that might be of interest,’ I continue, with the same impulse to please that I felt on the phone to McCarthy. ‘I met with a woman called Ellen, who used to live in the house on our other side?’

Her eyes widen. ‘Ellen! My God, I haven’t seen her in years. That’s a blast from the past.’

‘Yes. She ended up marrying a guy from around here. Gavin Bowman?’

Fran nods. ‘I remember. They were practically teenagers when they got married. He’s dead now, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. The thing is, Ellen found out recently that Gavin did something that morning. He locked Lily in a room in the building site.’

‘What? Jesus, are you serious? Do you want to come in?’ She pulls the door wide. Olive branch accepted. I step in and follow her through to the kitchen, taking in my surroundings as Fran makes tea. I didn’t see in here the morning I watched the video of Lily’s party, but like the living room, it’s a shrine to 1980s decor: pine cupboard doors, faux-marble counter tops, tile-effect linoleum floor. The smell of lemons, but not the fresh kind. Clutter, everywhere. Piles of papers on the worktop. Ornaments and knick-knacks and mugs of pens on the windowsill. I take a seat at the kitchen table.

‘Now, tell me more about this locked room?’ Fran says, putting two empty mugs on the table as the kettle thunders to its crescendo.

I fill her in – Gavin’s fixation on Mary, the break-in at the Murphys’, Lily waking up, and Aoife’s recollection of the locked room with the barrels in front of the door.