She raises only her eyes to the screen, keeping her head low, watching the subtitles play out as an Italian police officer speaks. Frannie has got off the bed, is standing in the corner of the dim room. Cathy can hardly see her.

We have reason to believe Will McGovern died in suspicious circumstances, though no body has yet been found, the scrolling white text reads. The person who knows the whereabouts of Mr McGovern has gone to great lengths to make it appear as if he is missing, not dead. A failed attempt at a cashpoint has come to light due to the fast actions of HSBC Bank. The cadaver dogs picked up the scent of a dead body nearby. We now believe his killer is trying to make it look like Mr McGovern is alive.

Cathy’s entire body feels as dry as a desert. Her mouth. Her eyes. Like somebody has sucked all of the moisture out of her, leaving only a husk in place. Frannie’s bedroom door opens, and they both tense. It’s Joe, with a pink towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Can I get changed in here?’ he says, clutching a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a grey t-shirt. ‘Lydia’s fast asleep. And I don’t want any more fucking questions.’

‘Sure,’ Frannie says faintly, staring at the television and going to sit back on the bed.

Cathy looks at her. As her eyes adjust to the dark, she sees that Frannie has raked her hair back from her forehead, her hands now holding it there, elbows out to the side, her body otherwise rigid.

‘What’s happened?’ Joe says immediately.

Cathy and Frannie exchange a glance. ‘What’s happened?’ he says again.

‘Look,’ she says, pointing to the television. ‘The cadaver dogs – the cashpoint …’

Cathy goes to stand by the windowsill, looking out. As she turns back to look at Joe after a few seconds, breathing deeply, she sees a crucifix right above the centre of his head. An oak-coloured cross. Another silver Jesus. Two red spots on his hands. She can’t stop staring at it.

Joe pulls on his t-shirt. It clings to the wet parts of his skin, the grey material turning to black inkblots.

Cathy takes a breath. In a low voice, she says, ‘They know he’s dead.’

‘Fuck,’ Joe whispers, staring at the breaking news. He’s still in the pink towel and his t-shirt. He glances over his shoulder to the door, which sits ajar, checking nobody is out there. ‘We need a new plan.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Cathy says firmly. ‘We need to stop. Just stop.’

‘But –’

‘Look – let’s just …’ She crosses the room to him, a hand on his damp arm. ‘We need to stop.’ She takes a breath. ‘We could stop.’ She turns around to look at Frannie, still looking at the television, the whites of her eyes shining exactly as they did on that night, animalistic, flashing. Joe looks at her too. Cathy stares down at the windowsill, thinking. As she does so, Frannie’s phone, charging there, lights up again in front of her. Frannie is in almost constant contact with her best friend, Deb, so Cathy isn’t surprised to see a waiting message.