Davina gets up and walks to the far side of the kitchen. ‘It was here.’ She points to the corner. ‘On a large white fridge-freezer, covered in tacky magnets.’

I can’t imagine Barb having anything tacky in her house, let alone magnets – I have never seen what Davina is describing in the entire time I’ve known Barb and I’d been visiting this house long before moving in myself. ‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Because I never once saw anything covering the fridge-freezer.’

‘It was only the once – well, the one time I was ever invited in here. Before now, of course. From her reaction, I’d hazard a guess she got rid of everything on that fridge after I saw it.’

‘Saw what, exactly?’

‘The postcard. I can still envisage it now.’ She closes her eyes and lifts her fingers, tracing the invisible memory. I wonder if her writing is as good as her acting.

‘I’m going to be late for the boys …’ I check my watch. I’ve only five minutes before the bell.

‘She seemed so angry with me for touching it,’ Davina continues, as though I haven’t spoken. ‘I shifted the Mickey Mouse magnet from one edge and pulled it away from the other one that had pinned it in place. Barb immediately shouted from across the kitchen: “PUT THAT BACK!” I remember being so shocked I dropped the postcard and it flittered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and managed to catch a glimpse of scrawled handwriting before Barb lurched forwards, snatching it from my hand.’

I’m curious to know where this is going now. ‘Did she say who it was from?’

‘No. She practically pushed me out of the front door,’ Davina says, dramatically. ‘I had seen it was a picture of London Bridge, though, and when it flipped over, I noted there was only a line of writing and an initial, possibly, with a single kiss underneath.’

‘And when was this again?’

‘Oh, I’d say about six months or so before she moved out and you moved in.’

So, that would make it seven years ago. I can’t think what the relevance of this is, but somehow it feels key.

I think Barb is hiding something.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Barb

I didn’t sleep well after the burning of the picture. But it wasn’t only the memories of the boy and the kitten that kept me awake. It was him. I hope I don’t have the misfortune to bump into Patrick again. I don’t believe he’s just here to visit the place where I scattered Bern. Why now? Bern’s been dead for thirty-three years and, to my knowledge, Patrick hasn’t set foot in Stockwood since the mid-Eighties. He wasn’t even at the funeral service. Although, that was by design on my part.