Marnie knew who it was, of course, that small, solid little person with her womanly figure, wearing wedged espadrilles, a chalky green cheesecloth halterneck dress, her hair tied back by one of those floppy bows she used to favour. It was Alice, and she was smiling; posing. Flirting.

Marnie studied the picture for a long time, staring at Alice’s smiling face, the balletic extension of the arm that wasn’t holding onto the pole, the palm of the hand held out towards the photographer as if inviting him to dance. There was something about the pose, something playful; something sexual.

Marnie folded the photograph and put it into the back pocket of her trousers. She stood up and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Oh, Dad, she thought, not you. Not you too.

31

As Will Jones approached the guesthouse that evening, he could see from the window above the door that the only light burning was in the hall. He used the key Mr Bradshaw had given him to open the door and went inside. The house was still and quiet; no radio playing, no TV. He crept towards the living room and rapped lightly with his knuckles. The door swung open and Will saw it was empty. Without the glow of its lamps, it seemed a cold, characterless room. The cheer, if there had ever been any, must have left when Mrs Bradshaw died. Daisy’s photograph gazed reproachfully from the walls.