Frannie met Deb when they were twenty-one, when she brought in her Manchester terrier for a consult. Cathy observed in real-time how easily her younger sister made a friend. An open question or two, and then they were giggling as they tried to weigh the dog on the scales. Numbers were swapped and that was that, a best friend arrived; something Cathy has never had. Deb goes over to Frannie’s most Tuesdays – by far the worst day of the week, Frannie says – and often, as Cathy falls asleep at home, she can hear their high laughter through the walls or the open windows.

But it isn’t from Deb. It’s a branded text message. ‘Thank you for contacting Jason Granger Law …’ is previewed on Frannie’s screen.

Cathy blinks. Jason Granger Law? She averts her gaze from Frannie’s phone, gets her own phone out, then googles him.

Jason Granger, his website says. Birmingham Criminal Lawyer. Cathy stares at it.

Why has her sister got a lawyer’s reply text? Is it her own lawyer? Before she can persuade herself otherwise, Cathy adds Jason’s number to her contacts, for her to investigate, feeling guilty about yet another thing: she would be mortified if Frannie looked at Cathy’s own phone, at her message to a man she went on a date with two weeks ago, who, she now knows, doesn’t want to see her again, after Cathy texted to no reply (twice). She knows why: she answered his questions too awkwardly in the pub, was probably boring too about animals, maybe spoke too much about Macca, her rescue bulldog.

Cathy stares as Frannie and Joe argue. Cathy is motionless, thinking only of this secret, this secret Frannie has chosen to keep from her.

She can’t help but feel, in the dim light of the villa, that they are turning on each other, slowly, so slowly you might not even notice it, like three warships that started facing forward and are now facing backwards, without anyone on board feeling any movement at all.

‘How haven’t they found the body, if they know he’s dead?’ Joe says, looking at her. Even after a shower, he still smells of cigarettes, has brought the smell into the room with him.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. If she is going to ask Frannie about it, she should do it now. But something stops her. The cards have been dealt, and it only remains to play the game, to keep them close to her chest.

‘Are they going to find it?’ Frannie asks. Cathy’s gaze swivels to her.

‘I don’t know that either,’ Cathy says, rubbing at her forehead. She pauses, thinking. ‘You didn’t send that text, did you?’ she says to Joe.

‘What text?’

‘The hotline. Tell me you didn’t send that text.’

Joe tenses, turning only his head to her.

‘What?’ Frannie says. It’s a sharp what, like a lemon.

‘Of course I didn’t,’ he says tetchily. ‘I said I wasn’t going to.’

Lydia appears in the doorway in her pyjamas, hair piled on the top of her head. ‘What text?’ she says.