‘OK. Well, she’s separated from her husband. Not divorced yet, but she will be. Or might have been, if he hadn’t had a stroke a few weeks ago. She’s gone back to London to help out until he’s better, but normally she lives in one of those cottages on the harbour. It used to be their weekend place.’

Grace was frowning. ‘Hmm … She’s looking after him? And they’re not divorced? Are you sure she’s not spinning you a line, Finch?’

‘I hope not. I don’t think so. I’ve made it sound as if she’s more attached to Michael – that’s her husband – than she is.’

Grace seemed doubtful. He supposed it might all sound pretty unconventional. He couldn’t expect her to be on board immediately.

‘Romy’s passionate about the environment, into conservation,’ he hurried on, ‘but not in a smug way. She volunteers for hazel coppicing and stuff, just because she loves doing it.’ He realized he wasn’t painting a very enticing picture of Romy. His stepdaughter had always made fun of the sandal-wearing vegans with grey ponytails whose territory she – and many others – considered environmental issues to be.

He tried again. ‘She’s not a hippie,’ he insisted. ‘She’s led a sophisticated life in London – her ex is a successful QC. Michael Claire, he’s often in the papers, defending some celebrity sex offender.’ He knew he was being snide in defining Michael like that, but he didn’t particularly care. It was Romy he wanted Grace to like, not Michael.

Grace’s face, normally so animated, went very still.

28

As Finch cleared away the supper things, blew out the candles and filled the dishwasher, he was worried. Something wasn’t right. Her face, he thought, when I mentioned Michael’s surname … That was when her mood changed. Before that, she’d seemed quite happy to talk about Romy. But straight afterwards she’d said she was really tired, and rushed off, barely saying goodnight to him. Does she know Michael?

He lay awake for a long time. The moon was bright outside the window and he couldn’t be bothered to get up and shut the curtains. He must have finally dropped off, though, because when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he had to drag himself up from a very great depth.

‘Gracie?’ He blinked, reaching for the bedside light, the figure of his stepdaughter in her pink childhood dressing gown – which still hung on the back of her bedroom door for when she visited – loomed above him, silhouetted by the moonlight. He heard a sob and instantly sat upright, swinging his legs out of the bed.

She plonked herself down beside him and he saw she was clutching a tissue in her hand, her face blotched, eyes red-rimmed from crying.