This could not be put down exclusively to sibling rivalry, Connie had always felt, because Lynne was the clever, successful daughter, approved of by both their parents, but particularly by her solemn, hardworking father – a civil servant in the Department for Education. Connie, by contrast, had been the troublemaker, the one who’d caused her father to clutch his brow in despair for her lack of focus on school-work and general dislike of authority and rules. She’d been much closer to her mum, who didn’t care so much about such things.

Devan had tried, in the early days, to get on with Lynne. But when he saw his efforts were futile, he’d stepped back. ‘She always makes me feel as if I’ve done something wrong. As if I’m not good enough,’ he would complain.

‘Join the club,’ Connie had responded.

But she’d found as she got older that her position towards her sister had softened – especially now both parents were dead. She loved Lynne, and if they kept their exposure to each other sporadic, they got along fine. Tonight, she would keep things simple: open a nice bottle of red wine, cook a tomato and pepper spaghetti – Lynne didn’t eat meat – and get lots of chocolate in. She’d be gone after breakfast.

‘God, am I ever glad to be here,’ Lynne said, plonking her overnight bag on the kitchen tiles and letting out a long sigh. ‘Bloody roadworks on the four seven nine, then an accident just before the bridge. It’s taken me almost five hours!’ She was taller than Connie and neurotically thin, her dyed dark-blonde hair cut to her shoulders with a fringe that was too short and neat, giving her face a severe look. They were nothing like each other. Lynne was the spit of their father while Connie, with her auburn hair and fair skin, resembled absolutely no one in her family.

‘Where’s Devan?’ Lynne asked, accepting the glass of wine Connie pressed on her.

‘With a friend. They’re checking out a car.’

‘And getting up to no good, I expect.’ She winked at Connie.

Connie wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean so she smiled and turned back to skinning the red peppers she’d just scorched under the grill. ‘How’s Roddy?’

Lynne wriggled on her kitchen chair, adjusting her gold disc pendant on its fine chain and settling the collar of her cream blouse. ‘Happy as a sandboy. Our life is now regulated to the nth degree.’

Connie frowned.