The first number she dialled was underneath a triangular logo, stamped in cheap ink on a thin piece of paper. Glasgow Refugee Support Network. There was music playing in the background as a woman answered, laughing at something unheard.

‘Hello. I’m looking for Nancy Okonkwo.’

‘That’s me, my love. How can I help you?’ The new Scots vowels stretching over African timbre, the beginnings of a whole new accent growing in that voice.

‘I’m calling about Clio Campbell. I think you—’ You what? She couldn’t say ‘knew’, couldn’t give the game away right there with the past tense, could she?

Start again. ‘I’m a friend. Clio was staying with me for a while. There’s a—’ She had no idea where these words were going; she really hadn’t expected this to be so hard. In her silence, the woman began to panic.

‘What’s – what’s happened to her? Is everything all right? What’s going on?’

‘She’s dead. I’m sorry – I’m sorry you’re hearing this from me. I found her yesterday evening. Dead.’

And then it didn’t matter that Ruth couldn’t cry, because this woman was crying. This woman had enough grief in her for both of them.

‘No no no no. No no, don’t tell me. Don’t be saying that. No no. Oh Clio, oh don’t.’

There was some scuffling, and someone else, another woman, was on the phone.

‘Hello, can you tell me what’s going on?’

In the background Nancy was moaning. ‘No no no, Clio. My girl, my friend. No no no.’

‘I’m calling about Clio Campbell. I believe she did some work for you. She died yesterday. I’m her friend. I’m trying to let people know.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ This woman was formal, businesslike. Much easier to deal with. ‘Do you mind if I ask what happened?’

‘She killed herself,’ Ruth said. Then she blurted out, ‘With pills. In my house – she was in my house.’

‘My friend, my friend,’ wailed Nancy, her sobs louder than the other woman’s voice, so Ruth assumed they were still sitting at the phone together.

‘I wanted to let people know – please could you tell anyone else she was close with? I’m sorry you had to find out this way.’

‘And I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the other woman. Someone else was comforting Nancy now; Ruth could hear yet another voice in there.

‘Look, please – don’t spread it about. About how she died. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t think we’re intending to release that information. Not yet. You know?’

Where that had come from she wasn’t sure. It seemed to be the sort of thing that people said. But really, who would care, if the manner of death got out there?