She pressed on, arriving flustered and out of breath. ‘Don’t look so worried, love,’ Tom said when he saw her. ‘I was wondering if Emily went over yesterday and got caught on the mainland. That would make sense, I suppose, but it’s best to be on the safe side.’ He squeezed her shoulder and she had to turn away, caught on the other side by the policeman’s sympathetic smile; he was obviously touched by her apparent concern for her friend, and she wanted to scream at him not to be so kind, when kindness was the last thing she deserved. He moved away from the door to let her unlock it, but Nora hesitated and handed the keys to her husband. The wind rushed in ahead of them, as if determined to get to the truth, and the rustle of dried seaweed across Emily’s carefully swept floor was the only sound that broke the silence.

‘Emily?’ Tom called as he walked over to the counter. ‘Emily, are you here? It’s Tom, we’ve just come to see if you’re all right.’ She waited for him to stop in horror, to turn and look back at her with shame or disgust, but his behaviour was so natural that she caught herself waiting for Emily to reply. He rummaged in a drawer for some matches and passed them to her. ‘Light the lamps, love, or Mr Penrose won’t be able to read anything.’ She did as he asked, and a warm glow filled the room. ‘Those albums are here, next to the postcards,’ he added, pointing them out to Penrose. ‘Take whatever you think might help.’ 222

‘Thank you.’

Nora braced herself to join the two men at the counter, standing where she had stood during that fateful conversation. She looked round, then closed her eyes, convinced that her mind was playing tricks on her, showing her what she dearly wished to see rather than the reality of her terrible deed; so seductive was the illusion that she had to will herself to look again, but still there was nothing there. Emily’s body, the dust sheet and the boxes, the blood that had spread in pools and rivulets across the floor – it was all gone.

‘Emily?’ Tom called again.

‘She must be here somewhere,’ Nora insisted, a note of panic in her voice. She stared round, utterly bewildered. ‘Where is she, Tom? Why isn’t she here?’ The only response to her question was a loud, indignant mewing as a tiny black-and-white cat appeared from a back room and began to rub round each of their legs in turn. ‘Oh God, I forgot about Charlie,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t been fed.’

‘I must have been right, then,’ Tom said. ‘She’ll have gone to Marazion and been stranded by the tides.’

‘But she can’t have done.’

Her voice began to rise hysterically. Penrose found her a stool, but she waved it away. ‘No, I’ll be all right in a second. It’s just the day, and everything that’s happened. I’ve got to feed Charlie, though. Emily would never forgive me for letting him go hungry.’