‘No!’ she snaps. ‘Martha was already in bed with him when he said those things. She’d have done anything he wanted, whether he talked false romantic crap or not, and he knew it. He pretended to be in love with her for the sake of his own pride. Aidan’s a perfectionist. He has to be the best at whatever he does. When he went limp inside Martha and couldn’t do anything to salvage the situation physically, he realised he needed to start talking fast if he wanted to be impressive in any way at all.’ Mary’s eyes are hard, two grey stones. Bitterness underscores her every word. ‘All his passionate whispering about everlasting love was a smokescreen, nothing more. He didn’t mean a word of it. All that mattered to him was that Martha should think it was better with him than with anyone else. And she did. Like I said, Martha was a words person. She didn’t care that the sex hadn’t worked—he’d brought her fantasy to life with what he’d said. That night was the best night of her life, a night she spent with a lying, impotent—’

‘Stop!’ I can’t stand to hear any more. ‘Where did it happen? Where did she hang herself? Here?’ I try not to think about how calm I felt when I first crossed Garstead Cottage’s threshold—as if I was arriving somewhere that had always been my destination. Somewhere I belong.

‘Downstairs,’ says Mary. ‘I’ll show you. Come on.’

‘No! Is that why you’ve brought me here? I don’t want to see it!’

‘What do you think I’ve got down there, Martha’s dead body? It’s nothing like that. It’s an exhibition, that’s all. You like art, don’t you?’ Before I have a chance to respond, she says in a sing-song voice that chills me, ‘Aidan had an exhibition. He sent Martha an invitation.’

‘You mean . . . before they spent the night together?’ If I keep her talking, I won’t have to look at whatever it is she wants to show me.

‘After. A couple of weeks after, when Martha was struggling to come to terms with his failure to get in touch “almost immediately”, as promised. She was getting ready to give up on him all over again, and then an invitation to his private view arrived via her publisher. No note with it, nothing personal, just the gallery’s printed card. The stupid cow got her hopes up all over again. She was so sick of feeling miserable, she’d have latched on to anything.’

‘Did she go?’

‘What do you think? Her mother went with her, allegedly for moral support, though the secret plan was to put the Wyers financial muscle behind Aidan, make him do the right thing, as she saw it—make her daughter happy.’

‘You mean bribe him?’