We both turn to look at the house. The peeling paint and rust stains that fleck the back wall are at odds with the freshly painted front exterior, and suddenly make the house seem neglected. Neglected and sad. I shiver despite the warm evening.

‘Ah, look, I’m depressing you,’ Fran says. ‘You go and see to your guests, I’ll finish my orange cocktail and go inside to snoop through your living room bookshelves. Good plan?’

Good plan. I move down the lawn to a couple of would-be Aperol Spritz drinkers – Liz Landry and a woman I don’t know.

‘Joanna, the house is gorgeous!’ Liz says. She’s wearing a long, monochrome wrap dress and huge black hoop earrings. ‘And the garden! Ours is tiny, I’m very jealous.’

‘Thanks, Liz, we’re delighted.’

Liz turns to the woman beside her. ‘Joanna, this is Cora, another Rowanbrook resident. She lives next door to me. We were chatting at the gate when I was on my way over and she decided to come along too.’ Liz’s eyes widen in a hope that’s OK way.

I smile and nod and shake Cora’s hand, wondering what kind of person invites themselves to a housewarming, but then again, the more the merrier.

‘So, Cora, have you lived in Rowanbrook long?’

Cora begins an extraordinarily protracted story in which she lists every single place she’s ever lived, while we listen politely. She’s in her early forties, I reckon, with faded sandy hair in a mass of curls framing her small face. Her navy t-shirt is pulled at the neck as though it’s been warped by too many washes, and over it, she’s layered a pine-green denim jacket. She wears no make-up, and her small eyes dart from me to Liz and back while she tells her story, as though unsure (quite rightly) of her listeners’ interest.

‘So, in the end,’ Cora eventually concludes, ‘I’m back in my parents’ old house, God rest them. I’m only there a month, but it’s as though I never left.’

Just like Fran next door, I think, wondering if Cora was here when Lily Murphy disappeared. I examine her face again. Definitely early forties. And something else. Something familiar? Or is it just because I’ve been standing here listening to her life story, staring at her face for too long?

‘So, to some extent, you’re a newbie, like me,’ I say, raising the jug of Aperol Spritz. ‘Cheers to that.’

Liz raises her glass. ‘I’m just delighted to have a party that’s in walking distance – I’m always envious when I see neighbours in and out of each other’s houses for wine. Now I have a wine buddy.’

I grin and clink the jug against her glass. I’ve known Liz since Ben started school, but only from the occasional class coffee morning or end-of-term night out. The trouble with working long hours is you never get to do the school run, though that novelty quickly wears off, I’m learning. We bonded on our first class night out over a shared love of gin cocktails and a shared antipathy towards school dress-up days.