He shrugged. ‘There’s a storm coming. Going to hit Europe, Iceland too.’ He angled the paper so she could see.

‘That’s a shame. I really want to get off the ship when we dock, take a look around Reykjavík.’

Tommy guffawed. ‘If you’re anything like Paula, the weather won’t matter. They’ve got a big shopping mall, all under cover.’

Anna caught the pained look that shot across Paula’s face and leapt on it. ‘Not a fan of the outdoors, Paula?’ she asked innocently.

‘I am, as a matter of fact. And I’ve been reading about the frozen lakes. I’ll be taking a look at them, whatever the weather.’ Paula’s reply was even, but Anna detected the undertone. Cool towards herself, belligerent against her husband. But then her face flushed and she dropped her gaze to the tabletop. Anna nodded to herself; neither emotion came naturally to meek, mousy Paula.

Tommy glanced at his wife. ‘You didn’t say. I’ve been looking at trips to the natural springs, I wanted to go and see them.’

An uncomfortable silence fell, broken eventually by Paula. ‘You can, I’ll be fine.’

Anna cleared her throat and shifted in her chair to stare outside. Why didn’t Paula just give up and return to her suite? Probably because she was scared she was going to be locked in again. She smothered a smile.

‘Hey, look, this is near us!’ exclaimed Tommy suddenly.

Anna turned back to him, but he had pushed the newspaper over towards Paula.

‘Look, this poor old guy was found dead in a house in Ilford. That’s not far from us.’

The smile slid from Anna’s face.

Could it be…?

‘Says they assumed he’d had a heart attack, but the police found evidence of foul play,’ read Paula. ‘Oh, God, they’re looking for his carer in relation to the attack!’

Sweat prickled at Anna’s hairline. Her heart pounded at double time. Discreetly, she smoothed her wrist along her forehead.

‘There’s a photo of her.’ Paula showed the paper to Tommy, seemingly forgetting that Anna was even there.

A photo? Of her?

‘Can I see?’ she asked, as casually as she could manage.

Tommy passed the paper across to her and Anna peered at the article. Two pictures, one of William in his younger days, before she even knew him. And a second photo… and it was of her.

She was wearing the beret she favoured, walking across the road towards William’s house, a shopping bag in one hand, her keys hanging loosely from the other. The photo was black and white, grainy on the page; her face was angled off to one side, her attention caught by something down the street.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her chest felt painfully tight.

How was there a photograph of her?

She read the article quickly.