All in all, it told her very little. Further searching brought up an obituary in The Times which included a very glamorous photo of Gran with him. They were the model golden couple. But despite more family history it shed no further light. She shut the computer down. She needed to check on Gramps and Gran.

He wasn’t with Gran in the bedroom, but the nurse was there. Lottie found him asleep in the snug.

‘Gramps?’ She whispered. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Thought you might like to eat a little something.’

His eyes opened, and he stared at her blankly then shook his head. He pushed himself up. ‘I just needed a little nap. I’ll head upstairs now.’

‘The nurse is there.’

He nodded. ‘I don’t think she will wake again. It’s just a matter of time.’ He held out his hand. ‘I must let her go.’

‘Oh Gramps.’

‘We’ve had a good life. I’m not complaining.’

Her heart broke as she watched him walk away. What would he say if he had heard what she’d said? Collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table, she knew these thoughts were wasted. It didn’t matter. Maybe she should forget what Gran said. Following it up would only lead to pain. She knew that, even an idiot would. But then she was good at doing idiotic things.

But Gran hadn’t said she’d told a lie or stolen some jewels. No, she’d confessed that she had killed someone. That she’d had no choice. Maybe she had been delusional, but Lottie couldn’t convince herself of that. Her eyes had been clear and focused. Gran had known exactly what she had said. She hadn’t wanted to say it. It had come unwillingly. It came with the desire for forgiveness. But Lottie might be reading more into it than she should. Maybe it all meant nothing? Gran was in pain.

Her mother’s cheeks were red and blotchy as she entered the kitchen. She didn’t do tears. Never. Her mother faced the most horrendous things and never cried.

She stopped by the table. ‘George killed him.’

‘What? Who?’ Lottie jumped up as her mother blew her nose.

‘It makes sense.’ She focused on Lottie.

‘You don’t make any.’ Lottie spoke with a calmness she didn’t feel. She hated this sensation. Everything felt like her fault. She shook it off. Her mother was struggling with grief like Lottie was.

She looked at her, puzzled. ‘George killed my father.’

‘Mum . . .’

‘I’m serious. He was here but denies it, yet there is proof in the notebook and the police reports.’

‘It only proves that a George Russell was here.’ Lottie took a step towards her wanting to help somehow. Gramps couldn’t have and wouldn’t have killed Allan Trewin.

‘I don’t believe in coincidences. It was him.’ She pulled out her phone.

‘Did you ask Gran?’