‘Or me,’ McNab said.

‘Definitely not you.’

35

Karen locked the front door behind her and went through to the kitchen, but not before she’d checked there had been no further notes put through her letter box.

Once in the kitchen, she placed the diary on the table.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she told the chair opposite hers at the kitchen range. ‘Things got a little awkward at the recovery cafe.’

‘Really?’ she heard Jack say. ‘I thought it was doing you good to go there. You’re not back on the drink again?’ His voice sounded panicked, so Karen put him straight.

‘Of course not. I haven’t touched a drop.’ She didn’t add that she’d wanted to.

‘Good. So are you making a pot of tea or will I?’

‘I’m on it,’ Karen told him. ‘The diary’s proving a problem,’ she said as she filled the kettle.

‘I thought you’d thrown that out when I told you to.’ Jack’s voice sounded angry.

‘I didn’t,’ she admitted, ‘because it might help me remember.’

‘But you don’t want to remember. You must never remember. That’s what your father told you. Forget all this, Karen. Forget what happened and live your life. That’s what he said.’

‘And it worked for a while, but not any more.’

She poured the hot water into two mugs, popped a teabag in each and a drop of milk, stirred them, then put the teabags into the food-waste bucket.

‘Hope it’s not too weak,’ she heard Jack say. ‘I don’t like dishwater tea.’

Karen plonked the mug on the edge of the range next to him. ‘Just as you like it.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re back talking to me all the time. Not a good sign.’

It wasn’t and Karen knew it. She lifted Jack’s mug, took it through to the scullery and tossed the dark tea into the sink, telling herself to get a grip. She wasn’t going back there, talking to a dead man who hadn’t even recognized her as his wife for the eighteen months before he died.

It was ridiculous.

Noting the time, she switched on the radio to catch the news, and sat down with her own tea to listen, both praying and dreading that there might be news about Mary. It came at the end of the bulletin, just a short clip from a news conference. The detective’s voice sounded both serious and kind. He explained that the body found on the moor had now been identified as . . .

Mary’s name echoed in Karen’s head, stripping away all the years between then and now.

‘They’ve found her,’ she whispered to Jack. ‘They’ve found Mary.’

Then she heard her own name being spoken. The detective wanted her to come forward and speak to them. Karen was Mary’s best friend, he said. We need to talk to her. We will find the person who did this, he said, but we need your help. Anyone who lived on Hill Street at that time, who knew Mary, should contact Police Scotland.