Once she had the dress back in the bag and hung in the exact place it had been, she went down into the small kitchen and put milk on to heat. If she hadn’t spoken with Pat she probably could have let go of her grandmother’s words, like Alex suggested. But she couldn’t un-know, un-see, or un-hear. Her grandmother had killed her grandfather. Gran had said she had no choice, but Lottie knew there was always a choice. Murder was never right. She made cocoa and sat with her head in her hands. Gran had murdered her husband. Those words kept running through her brain. She told herself it didn’t matter. Gran was dying. But she knew it did.

68. Joan

68

Joan

5 August 1962, 3.30 a.m.

The hall clock chimes and I watch Allan light a cigar in front of the French windows. He doesn’t see me as he grabs the halfempty bottle of cognac and staggers up the garden. I switch a few lights off and make sure my guests are in bed. Once I’m sure the house is clear, I change into my plimsoles and set off to the watchtower. It is his favourite spot for an end-of-party smoke. And if he hasn’t gone that way, I would know far quicker than if he has opted for the beach.

The bottom of my dress is soaked from the dew as I creep through the shrubs and trees, making sure I can’t be seen from any of the windows. Once I am far enough from the house I return to the path. The moon is gone and the darkness complete. Instinct and the smell of the cigar smoke guide me.

I pause, taking in the peace of the early morning. The sound of the sea is gentle, almost whispering while my heart is hammering. I roll my shoulders to release the tension.

‘Hello.’ I say holding myself straight. Only the burning tip of his cigar was visible.

‘Darling.’ He slurs.

‘Really?’ I can’t keep the irony from my voice

‘Always.’

I freeze, wanting to see his expression, but it is too dark. Only the angry burning edges of the rolled tobacco glows as he puffs. I sniff. It is not his usual. Cuban I would guess. No doubt from the Venns. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve asked myself that question too many times.’ He snorted. ‘I suppose you have, too.’

I nod but know that he can’t see me. ‘Yes.’

‘What gave me away?’

‘Many things.’ I clasp my shaking hands together in front of me. This ladylike pose is somehow comforting.

‘I was careful.’ He sits on a step.

‘I’m sure, but they had you tightly.’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He tapped the ashes from the cigar. My glance follows its burning trail.

‘How much have you leaked?’

‘Nothing important.’ He inhales deeply.

‘I doubt that.’