He opened the door to a silent house. Maybe she was in her studio again. Then she came in from the garden and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

‘How is Mrs Swain? You were gone ages. I was worried about you.’

He choked back his sarcastic retort and managed a grin. ‘She’s gone to stay with a friend. Matt has her key, and we said we’d forward her mail. She’s understandably cut up. In fact, she’s thinking of moving away.’

‘Oh no! That’s terrible. The poor thing. It’s not fair!’ She brushed a strand of hair from her face and he noticed how prominent her cheekbones were. He hadn’t expected her to show so much sympathy for Emilia’s plight, and it took him aback slightly. Recently she hadn’t seemed to care much about anyone or anything other than the house.

Will tried to keep his voice level. ‘I’m sure she’ll see things differently if we can nail the bastards who are doing this.’

‘We?’

‘Sorry. I meant the police — and Matt and Liz.’

She touched his face gently. ‘Do you miss it very much?’

He swallowed. Her mood swings were very hard to cope with. He didn’t know who he was talking to any more, or how to respond. He was tired of having to constantly try not to upset her. ‘Oh, you know, sometimes, I guess. But there is plenty to do here, isn’t there?’

She looked miserably down at her trainers, and then into his eyes. ‘You are having to do everything, aren’t you, my Bear? You are carrying me at present, and it’s not fair on you. I promise that as soon as this book is finished, I’ll pull my weight again, I really will.’

He wondered vaguely why, after an encouraging start, all his good nourishing meals seemed to have made no difference to her. He ran his fingers through her hair. How dry it was. Only a short while ago her hair had been rich and shiny, full and thick. She was turning into a black-and-white negative, all colour drained from her. She, who had shone so brilliantly. He held her to him and kissed her. ‘I love you, babe. I’ll do it, for as long as it takes.’

She kissed him back. ‘I love you too.’

He began to berate himself for his anger over the way she had sneaked off to attend that woman’s funeral. If she was sick, she needed his support, not his condemnation. Perhaps it would not be so difficult to act normally after all.

‘I want you to see something, Will. Come up to the studio.’

He started. She wanted him to see her work? He followed her upstairs.

The studio was unusually tidy. Only the doll, leering at him from the windowsill, jarred. He looked away.