‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘It was on the local news last night.’

‘You must have known her. She’d have been a colleague of yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Such a terrible shock,’ Veronica said, at last recovering something of her poise. ‘I didn’t know her well, but our children are friends. Have you heard if the police have made any headway in their investigation?’

So she was fishing after all. Or was it just that her desire for gossip outweighed her dislike of Connie?

‘They’d hardly be likely to confide in me, would they?’ Connie felt some of her old strength returning and gave a little laugh to prove it.

‘I suppose not, but I thought you’d still have friends in social services. They might have some idea what’s going on—’ Veronica broke off as a group of mothers walked towards them, then added hurriedly: ‘Look, why don’t you come to lunch. Nothing special. Bring your little girl.’ And she hurried away to greet the gathering women, without waiting for an answer. Watching her, Connie thought she looked like one of the wading birds you see on the beach, her head tipping forward to prod the mud, not for worms, but for information. She didn’t acknowledge Connie’s presence again during the ritual collection of the children, but Connie wondered if the only reason she was there was to have offered the invitation.

She was determined not to go. How dare the woman issue what was close to a summons and expect her just to fall in with the request. But holding Alice by the hand and leading her back through the village, she found herself overwhelmed by curiosity. Not just about what Veronica might want of her, but about the woman’s life and family. That social worker’s compulsion, the need to delve into other people’s lives. And lunch had been offered. Connie hadn’t been shopping for days and there was nothing much to eat in the cottage. She saw Veronica drive past in her Range Rover and wondered what it would be like to belong to her crowd, to be provided for by a rich husband, to live in a big house and drive a big car. There was a moment of envy. I want some of that.

She’d only seen the house from the lane and it felt like an intrusion to go through the big wooden gates and up to the front door. It wasn’t very old or even very grand. A solid square box, built – Connie would guess – in the Fifties, rendered and whitewashed, the silhouette softened by creeper growing along one corner, impressive only because of the large garden. It would have looked more in place in a smart city suburb. A pretend country house for a pretend country lady. Connie felt a moment of superiority: at least her tiny cottage had authenticity. It had been there for hundreds of years and had grown out of the landscape. It was mouldy and dark, but it had style.