‘You are seriously weird, living in a squat and shopping at Waitrose. Posh boy gone wrong.’

He grins. ‘Posh boy gone wrong. I like that. And I can afford to shop at Waitrose because I live in a squat.’

I sit on one of two deck chairs, in the middle of his uncarpeted concrete-floored lounge. Even though it’s a sunny day, I shiver. The dampness of the flat presses against me and makes me feel cold.

‘Let’s go and sit in the garden. It’s warmer outside,’ I suggest.

‘No. We can’t let the neighbours see us. They would report it to the police and I’d have to move out, pronto.’

I sigh. ‘That would be a pity, wouldn’t it. Can we watch telly or something?’

He shakes his head and shrugs. ‘The electricity has been turned off now.’

‘So you can’t even eat food from your toastie maker, or the microwave anymore?’ I ask.

‘No. I’ve started buying sandwiches and salads, and chip shop treats.’

‘Fabulous. Sounds delicious. And how do you charge your phone?’

‘I do it in the day at work, numbskull.’

‘You’re the fucking numbskull, living in a dump like this,’ I say keeping my voice light and jokey.

‘Thanks for that, Hayley. Charming as ever. Let’s hope you don’t ever need somewhere to doss after tonight. Remember your nob of a boss is in prison – that’s why you’re here right now. Don’t look down your nose at me. My home hasn’t been cordoned off for the police to investigate.’

152

Miles

I am sitting opposite you at a plastic table, visiting you in prison. We are not allowed to touch. You are thinner than ever, black-eyed and tired. I long to push the world away, take you in my arms and hold you.

You hated my mother, didn’t you? But did you kill her? I can’t make my suspicion go away. If I ask you outright, you’ll never forgive me for not believing in you. If I don’t ask you, I’m in denial, not willing to search for the truth.

‘I know you must be feeling very confused right now, but I need you to believe me. I didn’t do this,’ you say.

‘I can’t believe you would.’

You shake your head. ‘That’s not good enough. You need to understand utterly and completely, I didn’t do it.’

‘Then who did?’ I ask.

Your eyes fill with tears. ‘Asking that is one way of telling me you don’t believe me. Let me explain. Your mother must have set me up.’

I shrug. ‘From beyond the grave?’ I ask.