‘Hi,’ said Sven. ‘Hello. Good afternoon.’

Sven was a nice guy and Norah blushed when she remembered what a dance she and his sister had led him when they were fifteen and he only a year and a half older. She would have liked to have a bit of a natter with him—but her reason for calling was too serious for that. She forced herself to ask him the question she’d failed to ask Monika and soon realised that Sven was by far the better person to talk to.

He thought about his sister a lot, he said, of course he did, especially when the anniversary of her death came round. But Norah must stop reproaching herself. No one was to blame. His little sister had killed herself. They had to live with that.

Afterwards, they talked about this and that. Sven told Norah he was married and had two kids at primary school. They chatted for ten minutes or so and ended the call with warm goodbyes.

Norah put on the kettle and waited for the water to come to the boil. Then she made tea and left it to brew. Then she poured the tea down the sink. She took a tumbler from the cupboard—the wine glasses were still lying dormant in one of the removal boxes—filled it to the brim, and began to drink. Another memory was washed to the surface, a big memory, as spongy and misshapen as a drowned body.

She was at home, a few days after Valerie’s death, at the glass dining table in the living room, under those ghastly Kandinsky prints. Next to her, her mum, with her wacky red hairdo, and opposite them, two police officers, well meaning but plainly bored. They’d heard that she was the deceased’s best friend, they said, and Norah nodded.

Had she noticed anything?

She didn’t answer. Not because she intended any disrespect, but because the question made no sense to her; she was so confused since hearing the news. Someone had given her a sedative, but that had only made things worse—added an extra layer of befuddlement.

Had Valerie seemed depressed?

Norah managed a nod.

Had anything happened? Could she imagine that Valerie was capable of harming herself?

She raised her eyes from the table—dry eyes, cried empty.

‘Yes,’ she said and felt her mother take her hand and squeeze it. ‘I’m afraid I can.’

The police officers nodded as if they were sorry to hear it, but of course it was good news for them, because if it wasn’t suicide, it was something worse and then they really would have their hands full.

‘You’re sure she killed herself? I can’t believe she’d have done a thing like that.’

Norah glared at her mother, noticing with disgust that she was wearing blue mascara. It seemed all wrong to her. Valerie was dead and her mother’s eyelashes were a lurid blue.

The officers nodded again and the older of them added in fatherly tones, ‘Bar the absence of a suicide note, everything points to it.’