Paula turned up unannounced at Pete’s barge that afternoon. Meredith had been sitting in the sun on the roof, trying to read a battered paperback she’d selected from Pete’s bookshelf. It was Raymond Carver’s short stories; apart from the fact they were genius, she thought short stories might accommodate her current severely limited attention span, but she was still struggling to concentrate.

When she saw Paula swaying at the top of the steps to the pontoon, she leaped up. Paula looked as if she was about to topple head first down them. Meredith jumped off the boat, barefoot, and ran over to meet her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said as Meredith came up the steps, wincing as small stones pressed into her bare soles. Paula had put on make-up, but there was lipstick on her teeth and black blobs of eyeliner clogged the corners of her eyes, which were so red and puffy she looked as if she’d had an allergic reaction. ‘I had to get out. I remembered you said you were staying here this weekend. I hope you don’t mind. Will Pete? I can’t stand it at home. Ralph’s things are everywhere, and he’s not there. I feel like I don’t ever want to go back. I’m going to have to sell the house, aren’t I? I mean, how can I stay there now? Jackson doesn’t even live there anymore…’

Meredith took Paula by the hand, which felt dry and crepey in hers, and led her into the barge. ‘It’s fine. Of course Pete won’t mind. He’s at the workshop today anyway. Where’s Jackson now? He should be with you.’

‘He’s at his girlfriend’s in Guildford. He was so upset, I told him to go and spend some time with her. He can’t cope with me like this. And why should he? He’s twenty years old and he’s just lost his dad. But he’ll be back later, he said.’

Poor Jackson, thought Meredith as she steered Paula over to the sofa. The cushions still had two indentations from where the two cops had sat; DS Davis’s deeper than the one left by the woman with braces. Meredith couldn’t remember her name. She’d been so much nicer than DS Davis.

As she put the kettle on for Paula, Meredith thought about how creepy it was that Davis had fawned over her so much. It had been so awkward and inappropriate. He’d gone from a sneery sort of disdain to puppyish adoration that didn’t at all suit his sallow, stubbly face. If he hadn’t been a police officer and hadn’t spotted Pete’s bloody Cohen mug, she’d have lied and said she wasn’t Merry Heather at all. She was so far away now from that person, it was risible.