Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘I need to discuss the truth, Isla,’ it had said.

‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.

‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’

‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.

‘Are you going?’

She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.

‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’

She thought of lovely Jack, knowing how hurt he would be if he knew she was keeping the appeal – and the way it was affecting her – from him. He would be hurt if he knew that within a few minutes of meeting her ex, she was confiding in him – letting it all out. But there was something oddly comforting in the detached feeling of talking to an almost-stranger on a train – because that’s what he was now. Someone she probably wouldn’t see again for another eight years.

‘I’ll be in Canada when it takes place. I can forget it’s even happening. And I’ve told them I don’t want to know the outcome.’ She pinged the band on her wrist, before turning and fixing her eyes hard on the window, a surge of tears waiting to fall. She needed to change the subject. ‘So what are you up to now?’

‘I’m a chemist,’ he said, his tone upbeat.

‘Not a forensic scientist, then?’ That had been his dream.

‘Never happened, sadly,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a trial drug at the moment.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ Her eyes were back on him.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Not as interesting as travel writing.’

She stared, narrowing her eyes. ‘You know I’m a travel writer?’

He smiled. ‘I guessed.’ He nodded at her camera. ‘You wanted to be the next Martha Gellhorn.’

‘You remember that?’

He nodded, entwining his fingers on his lap, eyes darting over her face. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said again.