‘No,’ I say, rather too firmly.

She looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

‘There were loads of midges out there the other day,’ I say, turning back to the hob where the onions are slowly turning golden in the pan. ‘You know how I hate them. Anyway, it couldn’t have been Lottie because she hates Wimbledon. She only ever came here to see you and even then she used to say it brought back bad memories. You remember that business with Andy, the guy she met in the Crooked Billet?’

‘The married man who forgot to tell her about his wife?’ says Georgie. ‘Yes, that was awful. Men can be such bastards. They really can.’

She gets up and goes to the fridge, taking out a pot of black olives which she tips into a porcelain bowl and places on the counter.

‘That sounds ominous,’ says Jack, walking into the kitchen. ‘Shall I change into my bulletproof vest?’

He looks more relaxed now, the colour has returned to his cheeks.

‘Dinner will be about ten minutes,’ I say as he goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of mineral water. ‘I just need to set the table.’

‘Let me do that,’ says Jack. ‘It would be nice for this “bastard” to make himself useful.’

Georgie flashes a look at him and I feel the atmosphere cool.

‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say, handing him the cutlery. ‘I’ll go and freshen up.’

I walk out of the kitchen. As I pass the coat rack I think about my phone lying in the bottom of my bag and the message I’d received a couple of hours earlier. I know I should just leave it but curiosity gets the better of me and I unzip my bag and take out the phone.

There are sixteen missed calls, all from an unknown number. My legs go numb. What if it’s the police? What if they saw me earlier? What if whoever took that photo, the mysterious G, passed it on to them? With shaking hands, I scroll to voicemail but there are no messages.

Keep calm, I tell myself as I put the phone back into my bag and head up the stairs. It’s probably nothing, just sales calls or a wrong number.

But I know, in my gut, that something is gathering momentum. I am being watched and whoever is watching me knows what I did.

I creep down the stairs and walk along the narrow hallway. The lights are switched off but a thin sliver of moonlight filters through the window, illuminating the framed photo that sits on the sideboard. I see my mum’s wide smile, her sparkling green eyes, her tanned arms, and I remember summer 1993, a Spanish beach, my dad holding up the camera: ‘Say cheese, Penny!’

I tiptoe towards the living room. The door is closed but I can hear that woman’s voice again.

‘ – off Flushing Lane.’