Then Paula burst into tears again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I just … I can’t … it’s all … have you got any more wine?’

‘There’s some red,’ said Pete, bolting down into the barge and disappearing for a disproportionately long time, although Meredith had been about to try suggesting a cup of tea again. She felt personally responsible for the loss of the woman Paula had been – the brilliant, creative, scatty, well-groomed person who couldn’t be further from this broken human slumped in the picnic chair in front of her, whose life had been blown apart forever.

Meredith had to keep remembering that it wasn’t her fault. Ralph’s death wasn’t her fault.

Pete’s tousled head reappeared, bent to avoid bumping it on the low barge doorway as he came back up the steps holding a half-full bottle of red.

‘I’ll buy you some more to replace what we’ve drunk,’ Meredith said, noticing he hadn’t brought out a glass for himself.

‘Too right you will,’ he said, with a faint smile.

‘Not joining us?’

He shook his head. ‘Too much invoicing to do,’ he said. ‘If I start drinking now that’ll be the rest of the day blown out.’ He topped up their glasses and retreated.

‘He should’ve brought us clean ones,’ Meredith grumbled mildly, although she was feeling more annoyed about having to drink more wine to keep Paula company. White wine and sunshine always gave her a headache, and she could feel one burgeoning behind her ears and across her temples. Adding Merlot to the mix was guaranteed to make it set in for the day. Still, she thought, it was the least she could do.

On the quayside, Pete’s neighbour Trevor was splitting logs to replenish the communal woodpile, and Meredith idly watched his biceps flex as he swung the axe. Trevor was a nice man. In a civil partnership with Johnny, both of them were from Zimbabwe originally; a lovely couple. Sometimes Meredith envied Pete and Andrea. All the residents of the river boats had formed themselves into a proper, tight little community. They were always having impromptu get-togethers and leaving each other little gifts on deck – homemade lemon curd, bottles of fizz, pot plants. She herself had no neighbours and rarely received any visitors, unless someone she knew decided to have a day out at Minstead House and popped into the shop to say hello.

Then she reminded herself that solitude and isolation had been her own choice. It would drive her crazy having people just dropping by at all hours.

‘Post-mortem was yesterday,’ Paula said tersely, and Meredith felt a tiny jolt of fearful adrenaline, even though she already knew this.