There was time to walk back, she thought, and she could make a detour past the Pyms’ house, just out of curiosity. She needed the exercise and the time to consider all she had learned in the probation office. She set off down the windy main street towards the town centre, pausing occasionally to study the map. As her surroundings became more respectable, she recalled the events on the Jessie Ellen, given greater significance by the information she had learned about Greg and Louis. In a smart suburban shopping street, which might once have been a village high street, she stopped suddenly.

“Of course,” she said to herself. “Of course.”

The well-dressed women with their designer carrier bags watched her with sympathy and fear. Community care was all very well, they thought, but it let such odd characters onto the streets!

Unaware of their mistrust, Molly trudged on.

The Pyms lived in a solid Edwardian terrace not far from the high street. Molly walked slowly past the house, and while she did not actually limp, managed to convey that her pace was the result of arthritis, not undue curiosity. Now that she was here, the detour seemed a waste of time. She would discover nothing from the neat front lawn or the grey stone walls of the house. She was looking at the map again to find the quickest way back to the hospital when a woman came out of the house next to the Pyms’ and called to her.

“Excuse me,” she said. “ You’re not the woman who’s come to look at the house, are you? The estate agent said they might be sending someone. The For Sale sign isn’t up yet, but I can show you round if you like.”

“Please,” Molly said. “That would be very kind.”

“I don’t want to leave really,” the young woman chattered as she opened the door into the front room. “We’ve only just got it straight. My husband’s a do-it-yourself freak. He’s not really happy unless he’s doing up a house. But look at this new kitchen. I’d really miss the ceramic tiles. Would you like some coffee? I’ll make some when I’ve shown you upstairs.”

Molly said she would and waited patiently until the tour of the house was completed. She marvelled at the fitted wardrobes, the rebuilt bathroom, the extra bedroom in the loft. Only when they were sitting in the gleaming streamlined kitchen did she ask about the woman’s neighbours.

“What are they like?” she said, sipping instant coffee. “Neighbours can make so much difference to settling into a new home. Especially in a terrace.”

“I know what you mean,” the woman said. “ We had teenagers at twenty-eight until recently, playing the saxophone all night. But you’re all right. They’ve gone to college now, and they don’t even seem to come home for the holidays.”