She’d gone to Peter first, taken a tentative look around his bedroom door and found him prone on the bed, eyes closed, peaceful. This was heartening, so she went into her own bedroom and stripped off her clothes, put on some fresh ones, brushed her hair and tied it back into a ponytail. A wash would’ve been good. A bath even better. But the bathroom was full of her mother, and anyway, she felt adequately restored by clean clothes, and she stood in front of her mirror for a while, looking for signs of Catherine in herself. She knew she looked like Catherine used to look; there were old photographs that proved this. Catherine with a gang of girls on the club trip to Blackpool. Catherine in an off-the-shoulder dress, going dancing at the City Hall. Catherine in lace, carrying lily of the valley, standing in the lychgate of the pretty church at Dore, golden with promise and happiness. Peter was the image of their father, that’s what everyone used to say, but there was no evidence of it now, because Geoff Connor had been savagely excised from the family archive, hacked away from every picture he’d ever appeared in. Geoff Connor, famous for having sex with his sister-in-law on the morning of his own wedding, and many a time afterwards, and many other women too, oh, legions of them, although it was hard to say where fact ended and fiction began. Where was he now? He’d scarpered soon after Catherine came home from hospital with Alison, but there was no love lost there, because by then there’d been none to lose, not a scrap. Geoff had slung his hook, and he did at least give Catherine this: a person to blame for every bad thing that had happened since.