A set of keys. A wallet. And a ragged and torn piece of paper. It feels inhumane, to him, like he is a robber, a looter, but he goes through them nevertheless. ‘Four keys, including one for a car,’ Joe says. ‘A few debit cards. ID,’ he adds. ‘I don’t know what this is.’ He gestures to the piece of paper, torn and fluffy. As he opens it up, it falls into four pieces. It’s sodden with blood.

‘God,’ Cathy says. She comes over to him and scans it with the light of her phone. Both of their hands are shaking.

‘It’s illegible. Let’s just bury them with him,’ Joe says.

‘No. If we take them, we might be able to … I don’t know.’ She shrugs in that way that she sometimes does. ‘Help in some way. If there is a next of kin.’

‘What – post them off?’ Joe says incredulously. ‘Dear sirs, we enclose –’

‘No. But you never know. We might be able to help,’ Cathy says. ‘We might be able to – to mitigate some of it. Some day.’ Joe watches her go back to the spades, her shoulders rounded and sad.

He stares down at the body. What are they doing? He kicks a nearby rock, which goes flying.

Cathy turns and looks at him. He watches her watching him, saying nothing, trying to calm himself down. ‘It’s for our family,’ he says quietly. ‘Isn’t it? This is what family is.’

Cathy turns away from him again and begins digging. There are three hearts, here in the woods, but only two of them are beating.

They’re five feet in, standing in the hole now, and it’s – Joe checks his watch – just after four o’clock. For two hours, they have dug in near silence, talking only logistics and how best to cut through the many tree roots. Owls hoot in the trees, but otherwise there is nothing except silence and darkness.

Until now. A noise in the distance. ‘What’s that?’ Joe says.

Cathy stops, leaning on the spade. Her hands are filthy. ‘What?’ she says.

Joe cocks his head, staring at her.

‘A car,’ she says.

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t panic.’ Cathy keeps digging, her shovel moving faster than before.

Joe is paralysed, just listening. For sirens. For the call from the Italian police. The car’s engine gets louder as it approaches. It reaches a crescendo and then – thank God, thank God – begins to fade. Joe feels his shoulders drop in relief. Thank God it’s not near where Frannie’s fire will be.

‘I’m so fucking tired,’ he pants to Cathy. His hands are slick with sweat on the handle of his spade.

‘I know.’

‘What are we going to tell everyone? What should I tell Lydia?’

Cathy pauses. Her hair is everywhere, sticking to her neck. She looks mad, standing there in the grave. They both probably do. ‘You can’t tell her,’ she says. ‘Can you?’

‘No. The fewer people who know, the better – right?’ Joe says. ‘Plants only.’