She lay staring at the ceiling, thinking. What did Stuart want to tell her? His voice had sounded worried, concerned even. It had to be something important; something to do with Jack’s troubles at work. The two men weren’t friends as such, but they were friendly in the way that work colleagues often were.

Colour rushed to her cheeks when she remembered thinking he was making a play for her. He and that stranger; she’d been wrong both times. A stupid self-deluded fool, desperately clinging to a version of herself that no longer existed.

Restless, she threw on a robe and went downstairs for coffee. She’d need her wits about her when she met Stuart Mercer, for whatever it was he was going to tell her.

When the doorbell chimed, she put her mug down and headed to the front door, hoping it wasn’t the police with yet more questions. She pulled the door open and immediately relaxed when she saw Amelia standing there. ‘Thank goodness it’s you,’ Molly said.

‘I did text you to ask how yesterday went but you didn’t reply. I was going to ring and then decided, what the hell, I’d come over.’ Amelia stepped inside and enveloped Molly in a hug. ‘I can’t stay long.’

Molly led the way back into the living room. ‘Have a seat. There’s coffee, or I can make tea?’

‘Coffee is fine.’ Throwing her coat on the back of a chair, Amelia sat and looked at Molly. ‘Tell me everything.’

Molly took another mug and poured coffee, placing it carefully on the table before sitting back against the cushions and telling Amelia about her visit to the police station the day before and Jack’s behaviour earlier that morning.

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Amelia shook her head slowly. ‘The man on the canal, the police think he was waiting for you?’

‘It looks like it,’ Molly said. ‘He has form for duping gullible older women. Pathetic women like me who were seeking something that doesn’t exist. I was an absolute fool.’

Amelia picked up her mug and took a drink. ‘It’s your friend with his amazing brown eyes who’s at fault, Mol, not you. You must stop blaming yourself.’

Molly’s fingers tightened on her coffee. Amazing brown eyes? Where had she heard that before? Then she remembered. During her interview at the police station, DI Fanshawe had mentioned a witness who’d commented on Lucien Pleasant’s amazing brown eyes. ‘Turquoise,’ she said softly. ‘He’d turquoise eyes, not brown, and they weren’t real. He wore tinted contact lenses and changed the colour to confuse his victims.’

‘I told you nobody really had turquoise eyes,’ Amelia said. She lifted her mug. ‘Is there more coffee?’