Really she had done it because of her shame at her grandmother knowing about her diary.

The psychiatrist had explained to her about self-destructive behaviour. Lizzy had listened to the man, respecting his intelligence, knowing that he was trying to help her straighten herself out. And in two weeks she felt she had come a long way. One of the girls here had had a breakdown, and no one knew why. She had finally taken an overdose of aspirin and had nearly died. Her father was a respected lawyer and he had raised Cain every day his daughter had been in the ward. Finally the girl, a tiny redhead named Marietta, had admitted her father had been sexually abusing her since she was eight when her mother had died.

It was hearing this that had made Lizzy put her own life into perspective. She realised that she harboured all sorts of grudges against people. Against her mother for never being there when she really wanted her, for instance. When Kate had sneaked into school performances with her uniform on, she had wanted to die. She had wanted a mother like everyone else’s. A warm human being who picked you up from school in a nice second-hand Volvo and made you your tea and spent her every waking hour with you. What she had was a woman working her way up a career ladder, with enough obstacles in her way to make Hercules balk at the task.

Deep inside Lizzy was proud of her mother. When people found out she was a detective they were impressed, and Lizzy had been jealous sometimes. She had inherited her mother’s looks but not her quick brain. All in all Kate Burrows was a hard act to follow, and the worst of it all was that her mother accepted her for what she was; had never tried to force her to do anything against her wishes.

When they had spent time together, it had been good. Lizzy had loved being with her, getting the attention, but it only made it all the more lonely when her mother went back to work again, caught up in a big case. Lizzy felt then that she was shoved aside. That her mother used up all her energy on other people, other things, coming home sometimes hours after she had gone to bed. She would be half awake, waiting for the soft-footed padding of Kate’s footsteps coming to her bed in the middle of the night. She would feel cool lips on her forehead and want to put her arms around the slender neck and tell her she missed her. But she never had. Her mother had smelt of Joy perfume and cigarette smoke, and the smell would bring tears to Lizzy’s eyes.

She sipped the coffee again. It was only warm now, and she took the film of skin off the top with her finger and scraped it into the saucer.