‘What a delightful surprise before seven a.m.’ Mrs Hoskine smiled but Lottie could see the question in her eyes. Why was she at her house with her grandson at this early hour? ‘Is it coffee we are wanting or a good cup of breakfast tea?’

‘I think I need coffee.’ Lottie smiled.

‘You don’t look like you’ve had a wink of sleep.’

She half laughed and fought the urge to cry. Why was she doing this? Gramps didn’t need to have the memory of his beloved wife destroyed. Her mother didn’t need to know. Lottie bit her lip. That might not be true. But her mother had finally found some peace. Yet Lottie was sitting at Mrs Hoskine’s kitchen table, with her brain in a muddle from questions and lack of sleep, wanting to know more. Gran wasn’t a murderer. She was a kind, loving woman who saved the bloody baby rabbits who ate her plants from the neighbour’s cat. Lottie had to find out why she did it. Did she mean to do it? Gran’s faint voice saying, ‘I had no choice I had to,’ kept mixing with all Lottie’s memories of this elegant loving woman. She had never once raised her voice with Lottie, let alone lost her temper – even when John died and the police called her from the station looking for Lottie.

‘Drink that down and I’ll make you some breakfast.’

‘No need.’ Lottie smiled.

‘Lovely, you haven’t seen yourself.’ She laughed. ‘Alex, pick me a few tomatoes, please.’

He cast her a funny look but did as his grandmother asked. Lottie guessed the Navy had made sure he was good at following orders.

‘Now what brought you to me this morning?’

Lottie sighed then said, ‘My grandmother had a sea-blue silk dress.’

‘Yes, I recall it. It was Mrs Russell’s favourite.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I found it this morning. It has . . .’

‘It’s missing a bow.’

‘You remember?’ Lottie opened her eyes wide. ‘This all happened fifty-six years ago.’

‘She was upset about it. I found her about to burn the dress.’

Lottie choked on the coffee in her mouth.

‘She was so distressed and wasn’t thinking straight in the hours after Allan’s death.’ She shook her head. ‘On one hand she was cool-headed, holding it all together, but then I found her doing strange things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Throwing out her plimsoles and grinding the soles of another pair.’

Lottie cradled the mug in her hands. ‘Did you ask her about it?’

‘No, we do funny things when we grieve.’ She gave Lottie a quick look and her glance darted away to the dresser.

‘What about the dress?’

‘I took it from her.’ She turned back to the hob. ‘I think she had a breakdown.’

‘And the police, were they . . . ?’ Lottie didn’t know what to say.

‘Are you talking about Pat?’

She nodded.