Liam had seen pictures and some video footage of Jane Lawrence sitting in the courtroom, but as she had welcomed them into her home, he soon realised he had her all wrong. She had always seemed to be protective of Hannah, wanting to shield her from the glare of the press, and of the parents, she had been the most indignant, the one who shouted the loudest for justice, while Rosie’s parents simply fell to pieces. For those reasons alone, he had expected her to be nurturing and perhaps overprotective. In his head, he had imagined Hannah perhaps found her to be a little overbearing.

While he would never dispute Jane’s love for her daughter, it had quickly become apparent that nothing was about Hannah. This was the Jane Lawrence show and the woman clearly loved the limelight and being centre of attention.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, dumping his bag on the chair in the corner of the room and unrolling Tank’s bed for him in front of the radiator.

‘Yeah. It’s just one night, right?’

She didn’t sound very convincing and there was little Liam could say that would make the next twenty-four hours pass quickly, so he didn’t, instead straightening up and glancing out of the window at the long narrow garden. Like the rest of the property, it was well cared for, filled with mature shrubs and pretty flower beds.

‘I take it your mum and stepdad like living here. They’ve never thought about moving?’

‘They love the house and the village, and all of their friends are local. I think Mum might have considered it, but Geoff is never going to leave.’

She didn’t sound bitter, though it must have been difficult for her living here in the aftermath of the trial, where everyone knew what had happened, and having to pass the farmhouse on a frequent basis. Of the families involved, only the Lawrences and the Emersons had stayed in Hixton, though Roland and Denise Emerson had been planning to move four years later, shortly before they were both killed in a car accident.

After Rosie left to live with her aunt, it had just been Hannah who remained. No wonder she escaped the village as soon as she was able.

As he turned away from the view of the garden, he found she was watching him, the frown on her face creasing two little lines between her eyebrows.

‘Why Eileen Wickham, Liam? Surely there are a dozen or so more interesting crimes to write about.’

She had asked him that question once before. Had she forgotten or was she trying to trip him up?