There was no vodka. Absinthe would have to do. Charlie poured the pale green liquid into a tumbler and took two big gulps, hoping it would work fast. Not fast enough. She downed the rest of the glass, then poured another. She took her phone out of her pocket and switched it on. Five missed calls from callers who’d withheld their numbers. Unusual. There was one message, from Simon. ‘Where the fuck are you? Ring me as soon as you get this.’ Charlie listened to it again, trepidation making her stomach churn. Something was wrong. He knew where she was; she’d told him she was going to London to see Lund.

She rang him, got his voicemail, left a message saying she was worried, that she was at her sister’s now and he should ring her as soon as he got the chance. Then she glugged more absinthe, jabbed ‘118118’ with her thumb and got the number for Villiers girls’ boarding school in Wrecclesham, Surrey. Might as well ring now, put off facing Liv for a few more minutes.

The voice that answered the phone sounded as if it belonged to a woman who had been put on earth to do nothing but answer telephones with perfect politeness. Though all it said was, ‘Villiers, good afternoon,’ it conveyed a sense of delight in anticipation of being able to help anyone with anything, and made Charlie feel less awkward about posing her question.

‘This is going to sound strange,’ she began.

‘That’s perfectly all right. I can do strange. Frequently have to,’ said the woman. A secretary, Charlie assumed. ‘You should hear some of the calls we get.’

‘I’m after the name of an ex-pupil of yours who went on to become a writer. Does anyone spring to mind who fits that description? ’

‘A fair few,’ said the woman proudly. ‘You should come and look at our boasting gallery some time.’

‘Can you give me some names?’ Charlie reached for the pad of A4 paper and pen that Olivia kept near the phone; though, irritatingly, not so near that you didn’t have to lean to reach it and risk pulling the phone’s base off the shelf. As the woman name-dropped women writers, Charlie made a list. She’d heard of only one of the six the secretary mentioned, and put a cross beside her name. She hadn’t committed suicide; Charlie had seen her on Question Time last week.

How to ask if any of them were dead without sounding crass, or making the secretary clam up? ‘Are . . . as far as you know, are all these women still writing?’