Later, as they strolled towards the bar where they’d arranged to meet Tom and Conor, Nina decided she’d better keep her promise. She pulled her phone card from her bag. ‘I’ll give my parents a shout.’

‘Ah,’ said Tess, with a knowing smile. ‘Good luck with that. Give my love to your dad.’

The early evening was warm, the sun covered by a gauze of cloud. The phone box stank of disinfectant and hot metal, and as she tapped out the number, sweat collected along Nina’s spine. She breathed in and told herself to relax. She’d be casual about the truth and then she’d say goodbye, give them time to think it through.

Her brother answered the phone. ‘Hi, Hugh, is Mam there?’ she asked. She didn’t want to get waylaid by chatter about football or some such.

‘Wait until you hear—’ he started, then surrendered the phone to their mother.

‘I take it you haven’t heard the news?’ she said.

Five minutes later Nina rejoined Tess.

‘What did you say to them?’ Tess asked, rocking on her heels with anticipation.

‘Ahm, there was a bit of a problem. I didn’t get to the flat issue.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because they did most of the talking. There’s big news at home. Noel O’Grady drove his car into a ditch.’

‘There’s a shock. Was he hurt?’

‘He was killed. Conor’s dad called an ambulance, but it was too late.’

‘Oh, crap,’ said Tess, linking arms with Nina. ‘We’d better go and tell the lads.’

Chapter 9

‘I take it he was drunk,’ said Conor, who was wedged into the corner of the Eagle and Serpent, a cloudy pint in front of him.

‘Mouldy,’ said Nina. ‘He’d been in Pilkington’s all night.’

‘What a fool. He’d have walked home in twenty minutes.’

Tess pushed her hair back from her face. ‘We’re definitely in the wrong place tonight. I’d say the hullabaloo in the village is something else. Mags, Mercedes and the gang must be up to ninety.’

Tom was becoming annoyed. It wasn’t as if he’d liked Noel O’Grady. With his Brillo-pad hair, corned-beef face and shapeless brown suits, the guy was everything you didn’t want to be when you grew up. Then there was his braying voice and his six sons, each dumber than the next. But the man was lying in the morgue. A bit of respect was called for. ‘Come on, Tess,’ he said. ‘A guy – a neighbour of ours – is dead.’

‘Fair enough, but what’s it to you? Do we have to act like we’re old people and every death affects us, whether we liked the person or not?’

‘He is … was … an in-law of Conor’s.’