She peered at the date on the article – last August, almost a year ago. If someone had really wanted to discover Meredith’s whereabouts and go about making her life a misery, it wouldn’t be that difficult. How many stately homes – with gift shops – were there in Surrey? Quite a few, but not so many that it would be difficult to figure out which one she ran. A handful of phonecalls would probably do it; or a lot of visits to country piles.

Gemma hadn’t realised there had been a big mystery around why Meredith dropped out of the band all those years ago. But why would she? She’d been five years old in 1995. She barely even remembered Kurt Cobain.

Her thoughts returned to the scar on Meredith’s hand, the hooded expression in her eyes whenever anybody asked her any questions about the past. Gemma had just sort of assumed that the woman had got fed up with being in the public eye, as she herself would very quickly. Gemma couldn’t imagine anything worse than being hassled wherever she went, photographers lurking in corners to leap out at her, longlensed, capturing her least flattering angles. She imagined being in the Daily Mail’s Sidebar of Shame, pictured all sweaty leaving the gym, or caught having a row with her ex, Rich, shouting puce-faced in a park at him, under the caption: ‘Gemma McMeekin in Screaming Argument with Boyfriend!’

She shuddered, closed the laptop and wandered through to the kitchen in socked feet, delicious smells of lamb and rosemary wafting through to her from the Aga. Meredith was laying a tiny table with knives and forks. A jam jar of fresh bright-blue cornflowers had been placed in the middle and an uncorked bottle of red sat on the counter with two empty glasses next to it.

Meredith looked up and caught Gemma looking longingly at it. ‘Hi. I know you said you didn’t want to drink as you’re on duty, but it’s there if you want to. I’m going to have one. At least one.’

‘It smells delicious.’

‘It’s just a lamb stew. You do eat meat, don’t you?’ Meredith said it in a way that implied tough shit if you don’t.

‘Yeah.’ Gemma had already told her this, just a few minutes ago.

‘Good. I’ll dish up then. Have a seat.’

Gemma sat down, mentally rehearsing the questions she wanted to ask. ‘Um, Meredith, I didn’t know you were planning a reunion with your band?’ Perhaps a bit abrupt to kick off with, she thought, but she wanted to see what reaction it got.

Meredith had just turned to stir the stew with a ladle, ready to spoon it onto plates, but she froze; her back to Gemma, so Gemma couldn’t see the expression on her face.

‘I’m fucking well not. Not in a million years. What makes you think that?’