We wait . . . one beat, two . . . Next to me Mum opens her mouth and I shake my head at her. No, I plead silently at her. Don’t speak.

‘I didn’t know what to do. Everyone said she was wicked. Everyone said she was bad for what she did. Victor was trying to hurt us.’

I lean forward carefully so as not to put her off her stride. ‘Gran . . . are you saying someone called Jean killed the woman at Skelton Place?’ I turn to glance at Mum, horrified.

‘Victor . . . Sheila . . .’

I rub my temples. I can feel a headache coming on. Gran is confused and so am I. It’s just the dementia talking, I tell myself. Before my last visit I’d never heard her mention these names.

Thankfully Joy walks over to us at that moment. ‘The police are here,’ she whispers, looking around to make sure the other residents haven’t heard. ‘I think you should all come with me.’

13

Lorna

THEY FOLLOW JOY INTO A ROOM JUST OFF THE HALLWAY, WHICH HAS a fireplace and flocked wallpaper in duck-egg blue. Saffy is holding her gran’s arm and Lorna’s heart is silently breaking. Breaking not only at the sight of her mother looking so much older than the last time she’d visited six months ago, but the shock that she doesn’t recognize her. She knows she hasn’t been to visit as much as she should. It’s been hard from Spain. That’s what she’s always told herself, anyway. Yet deep down she acknowledges she could have done it more often if she’d really wanted to. It’s only a ninety-minute journey by plane. But it had been easier not to think about her mother, fading away in the care home, her brain scrambled. It had been easier instead to focus on ridiculously buffed and unsuitable toy-boys. Now the guilt eats her up. She’s been a terrible daughter.

The two floral armchairs positioned either side of the fireplace are occupied by men, both in open-necked shirts, smart trousers and a sheen of sweat on their faces. It’s even hotter in here than it is in the day room. The older of the two – mid-forties, Lorna suspects, with receding hair, blue eyes and a chiselled jaw – stands up when they enter. The younger man – late twenties, short and stocky with spiky hair the colour of dirty dishwater – remains seated. He’s drinking what looks like a chocolate milkshake from a see-through Starbucks cup.

‘I’m DS Matthew Barnes,’ says the older one, shaking their hands across the coffee table. ‘And this is my colleague, DC Ben Worthing. We’re from Wiltshire Police CID.’ Ben nods to them all. She notices his gaze lingers on Saffy.