‘I suppose it wasn’t so bad before his mum died. Even then, they were dirt poor and lived in a slum. You’ve seen the house—it’s a slum, right? You wouldn’t keep animals there, let alone use it to house human beings. Aidan’s stepfather, Len, the one in prison—he was drunk all the time, violent. The sort of person you’d expect to find on a council estate—all my Megson Crescent neighbours are versions of Len Smith, or his family.’ I hear her laugh. ‘Knock on any door and there’s someone waiting to sell you a gun and teach you how to use it. From the day Aidan was born, he was in danger from his surroundings. That’s why he gives up so easily. That’s why he’s dead and we’re not.’

‘No . . .’

‘He gave up as soon as Gemma Crowther let me into her flat. Saw me and gave up.’

‘You shot her. Not Aidan.’

‘She had my picture. He gave her my picture.’

I force my eyes open, aware that what I’ve just heard is an admission.

‘I’m afraid I forgot all about you when I saw it,’ says Mary. ‘You and her, I mean—the history. I remembered too late, once she was already dead, that she ought to have suffered, ideally, instead of dying straight away. You’d have preferred her to suffer, wouldn’t you?’

There are some punishments no one should have to endure, not even Gemma Crowther. Death. Torture. No one deserves those things. No one has the right to mete them out.