James looks horrified. ‘But she told me the salon was doing fine. Bookings were up. She said we’d get through this.’ As he falls silent, I know what he’s doing. He’s replaying every excuse she made to stay late at work, to be working at weekends. It’s clear he’d believed it at the time, but now he’s wondering if any of it was true. That’s what happens when someone cheats – you question everything.

‘I suppose you believed what you wanted to believe.’ I pause.

Fists tightly clenched, he holds it together. ‘It’s this fucking village.’ His voice is full of anger, the strain clearly visible on his face. ‘Ever since Hollie met Dylan, it’s been nothing but a nightmare.’

‘Dylan?’ My ears prick up. I’ve never heard his name mentioned before.

He utters a brief, cynical laugh. ‘Right there, that one word, tells you how little you know about what’s happened around here. Ask Elise Buckley. No, on second thought, ask her bastard of a husband. They know far more than I can tell you.’

‘Who is Dylan?’ I repeat.

James looks stricken. ‘The boy Hollie loved, with all of her heart. But he screwed her up – destroyed her. If you’re looking for her murderer, it started with him.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Elise

I swap a flight to go to my husband’s lover’s funeral, keeping up the appearance of the smartly dressed, loyal doctor’s wife, the cracks in our marriage hidden beneath layers of makeup, trying not to think about how many people know as I take my place at his side. It seems two funerals in the village within a month are too much for most people. The church is only half full, the flowers pitifully lacking.

James sits at the front with two men I’ve never seen before either side of him. He speaks to no-one. There is nothing uplifting about the service. It’s only after it’s over that I realise the two men are plain clothes police officers. Their presence confirms my suspicions that the police are holding him. After waiting around only until Stephanie’s coffin is carried out through the door and laid to rest next to Hollie’s grave, they escort him away.

The villagers may have let her down, but as I walk outside to the churchyard, it’s as though nature has done its best for Stephanie. The funeral may have been sparse in every sense, but out here primroses crouch in the shadier corners alongside brave stems of the first bluebells; under our feet, the grass is scattered with violets and the palest lilac wildflowers, the paltry efforts of the congregation during the few hymns outshone by the chorus of birdsong.