At the office, no one noticed a thing. Inès thought she seemed tired: you’re pale, she said when Sarah returned from leave. Luckily, it was winter: bodies were hidden under shirts, sweaters, coats. Careful not to wear anything low-cut, Sarah simply applied a little more make-up than usual and the illusion was complete. She perfected a code for her diary: ‘CA’ for appointments with her consultant, and ‘lunch T’ for her tests at the hospital, which she always booked between midday and two p.m. Her colleagues would think she was having an affair. And she rather liked the idea. Sometimes, she found herself fantasizing that she was meeting a man in her lunch breaks. A solitary man, in a town by the sea. A sweet, gentle affair. Inevitably, her daydreams stopped right there; reality dragged her back to the hospital, the treatment, the tests and examinations. Speculation was rife among the juniors at work: she’s out again today … and part of the afternoon yesterday … She switches off her mobile, yes … Did Sarah Cohen have a life outside the office? Who was she meeting over lunch, in the morning, and sometimes during the afternoon? Was he a colleague? A partner? Inès reckoned he was a married man, someone else suggested a woman. Why would Sarah take so many precautions otherwise? She came and went regardless. Her plan seemed to be working. For the moment, at least.

One tiny misstep would be her undoing, as so often happens in crime novels; the devil was in the detail, lying in wait for the murderer. Inès’s mother was ill. Sarah should have known. And thinking about it, she had been told, some time ago – last year. Sarah had said she was sorry, and then she had thought no more of it. The information was lost in the ether of her over-worked brain. Who could blame her? There was so much to think about. If she had taken the time to stop by the coffee machine, to roam the corridors, or sit down to lunch with her colleagues – which she never did – she might have heard it mentioned again. But the fact was, her exchanges with the others were limited to the bare, strictly professional, essentials. Not out of dislike or hostility, just a lack of time – she was never free. Sarah revealed nothing about her private life and didn’t try to find out about other people’s. Everyone was entitled to their own secret garden. In a different context, another life, she might have engaged more with her colleagues, even made friends. But in this life, there was no room for anything but work. Sarah was always courteous, but she was never familiar.