Marnie tried not to dwell on the events of the day that Alice disappeared, because thinking about them upset her. Sometimes snapshots came to her in dreams, or some small, random thing would trigger a memory. The Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint It Black’ would play on the radio and she was ten years old again, lurching amongst the afternoon crowd in the Channel View funfair with the noise booming around her; bumping into people, disorientated even though she knew every inch of that place like the back of her hand. She was looking for her father, she wanted to tell him about Trip and how she felt hot and sick, and how Mrs deVillars had been upset because of the guinea pig but he wasn’t there; he wasn’t anywhere.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, why was she thinking about it again? It didn’t help. It didn’t change anything.

She checked the time. It was getting late. She caught Lucy’s eye and tapped her wrist. Time to make a move.

Lucy moved closer to TT, so that she was lying beside him. The little dog rolled lazily onto his back, his body pressed against hers.

‘Aren’t we staying for Graham Norton?’

No.

Absent-mindedly, Lucy scratched at the hairy junction between the inside of TT’s thigh and his belly. His leg kicked, triggered by some nerve.

‘Who do you think killed Alice Lang, Granddad?’ Lucy asked.

Marnie exhaled in frustration.

‘Do I look like a detective?’ John asked.

‘Someone must know.’

‘Not me.’

John reached for the whisky bottle, the whisky that Edward deVillars had brought the day before. He filled his glass, glug, glug, glug.

‘It’s scary,’ said Lucy. ‘Isn’t it, TT? Isn’t it scary? There’s a murderer among us!’ She leaned over the little dog and nuzzled her face into his upside-down cheek.

She knew better than that. She knew better than to intrude on the dog’s personal space while he was in a vulnerable position. Marnie’s father saw the anxiety on her face.

‘It’s OK, Marnie, he won’t hurt the child.’

Marnie licked her lips. She imagined TT snapping, digging his sharp little teeth into Lucy’s cheek.

‘He won’t hurt her,’ her father repeated, more forcefully.

Marnie clicked her fingers. The terrier rolled over, jumped up and ran to her. Good boy, good dog. Marnie slipped him a treat. TT shook himself, a sign that he had been stressed. She’d known it.

‘Shake a leg, Lucy, your mother’s waiting,’ said John, and this time Lucy sighed extravagantly and made a meal of getting up off the carpet. She sidled over to her grandfather and leaned against the padded arm of his chair.

‘I’ll see you soon, Granddad.’