Merry and Bruce, our next-door neighbours, came over while I was kneeling in the front garden one summer afternoon pulling out weeds. Or at least, I was pulling out what I thought were weeds. I’d never had a garden before, and I had to guess by sight, by leaf shape and colour, who was welcome and who was not.

Bruce wore clothes to suggest he could handle himself in the outdoors: cargo pants that could be zipped off at the knee, an old, lemon-yellow polo shirt with the collar turned up, a floppy khaki hat. Merry wore a zebra-print pussy-bow blouse and leather pants, despite the heat, the humid air. His shoes were hiking boots and hers were black pumps with a gold trim around the heels.

Merry came through the gate smiling and clutching a biscuit tin. Her hair was in soft feathery layers and her pink lipstick was dark and metallic. She looked wealthy, but she looked like a wealthy woman living in 1994.

‘It’s the welcome wagon!’ she said. ‘I brought shortbreads.’

I sat up.

‘Bad time to be planting,’ Bruce said.

I stood, slipped off my gloves, shook Bruce’s hand, accepted a heavy, Chanel No. 5 kiss from Merry. Tate appeared, introductions were made, and before I knew it they were in the hallway. They were so glad to meet us, finally, Merry said. They’d been away at their beach house.

‘You fish?’ said Bruce.

‘I’ve always wanted to learn,’ said Tate.

‘Every man should know how to fish,’ Bruce said.

They continued into the house, Bruce knocking on the walls and Merry remarking on how clean everything was. ‘Neat as a pin,’ she said.

‘It’s so different now,’ said Merry. ‘I mean —’

‘Good idea to paint the walls white,’ said Bruce. ‘Makes a small place like this look bigger.’

We went into the kitchen, then through to the dining room. I returned to the kitchen, conscious of the mud on my knees, and made coffee in a French press. I arranged the shortbreads on a plate decorated with rosebuds. It matched our coffee mugs.

The body had been found in the kitchen. The woman had been stabbed twenty-two times. Whenever I considered this fact, I couldn’t help but think of what the judge handing down the sentence had pointed out: that this was many more times than was necessary to kill her. If killing her had been the murderer’s sole intention.

‘Nice table,’ said Bruce when I brought in the coffee. He slid his hands along the edge, his wedding ring scraping the varnish.

‘It’s an heirloom,’ said Tate. ‘It was Alice’s grandmother’s. Had it sent over from England.’

‘A good solid piece,’ Bruce said. He pushed it a little, to test his assertion. It didn’t move.

I poured the coffee, sat.

Merry took her mug and clucked at it fondly. ‘Aren’t these just darling,’ she said.