Sam realised she’d never even seen a picture of Gabriel. When Ellen had come over for dinner she said that he hated having his picture taken because of a scar. It wasn’t even a bad scar, Ellen had said.

‘You’re better off without him,’ Sam said.

‘But I don’t want to be without him.’ The tears began again.

With other friends Sam had also seen this kind of process at the death of a relationship. How longing and pain dominated at the start, and that learning to hate, even for a while, made you feel better. Hatred was the blister that protected the wound, useful for a while, but damaging if retained permanently.

‘I gave him money too,’ Ellen said. ‘It was just a loan.’

‘How much?’

‘It’s not about the amount, it’s the breach of trust.’

‘I agree, but are we talking a hundred pounds, or more?’

‘It was the money left to me by my grandmother, for a deposit on a house. More than £14,000. It’s all I have.’

‘Oh Ellen.’ Poor, poor woman, taken for a ride by an utter bastard. Sam waited for her friend’s sobs to subside. ‘Ellen, you can’t let him get away with this. Give me his full name, address, phone number, place of work. I’ll report it for you—’

‘No, I’m sure he’ll let me have it back. It’s just awful to have to ask.’

‘Ellen, trust me. Gabriel is never going to give you your cash back. If we act quickly, you might have a chance. But if you wait, well, there’s a good chance he will get away with it.’

‘I love him, Sam. How could he do this to me?’

‘Get real, Ellen! This is what some men do.’

‘Sam, please don’t be horrible to me.’ Ellen said in a meek voice.

‘I’m sorry.’ Sam realised that she was already nurturing a sizeable abscess of loathing for Gabriel, a man she had never met. As she rolled her mouth around her anger, feeling the texture and sensitivity that had once been very familiar to her, it flared into impatience with Ellen.

Her friend might not be ready to go ballistic, but she was. She would mention it to Craig.

Arriving home at a reasonable time, Gillard interrupted Sam showing their home to potential purchasers. It was a pretty standard three-bedroom semi-detached, but had attracted no firm offers in the months that it had been on the market. The market was soggy, the estate agent said, but there were other factors that Craig preferred to blame. His aunt Trish lived opposite in a bungalow she had bought shortly after the infamous Devon hit-and-run court case in which she was involved. She wanted to be close to her only nephew, but Gillard found her devious and manipulative, a baleful influence. She had been caught leaving messages on the windscreens of potential purchasers’ cars warning them about undisclosed damp problems in the property. She was doing everything possible to stop them leaving.