Time was dragging offensively slow, like an Easter Sunday sermon. Every time a car rolled past the shop, Abby leaned over her counter to look for the white and blue of Bobbi’s cruiser, desperate for a distraction. She was about to check all the use-by dates on the milk cartons when she saw an ancient green Saab roll up outside. All but one of the hubcaps were missing, and the rear side window had been smashed and covered with a collage of plastic shopping bags. They flapped in the breeze like gills.

The Saab door opened, and a seventy-something woman in high heels stepped out, swaying and stumbling awkwardly like a newborn foal. Eileen Betchkie.

Despite the chill, Eileen was wearing nothing more than a tight mini and a tighter tank top, pink bra strap dangling strategically off one shoulder; she had bleached yellow hair, midnight-blue eyeliner and a couple of healthy handfuls of false cleavage.

She’d make a hell of a drag queen, Abby thought, if not for her walk. She moved with a hunch, as if the ghosts of all of her past mistakes rode on her shoulders, and if the island grapevine was accurate, she’d made plenty. She’d burned through four marriages, gone bankrupt twice, had three convictions for drugs and one for prostitution.

They were just rumours, of course. If Belport had one thing in abundance, it was gossip.

The electronic bell above the door chimed as Eileen swept inside. There were goosebumps on her broad, bare shoulders. Her arms were muscular and toned, as if she’d spent a life chopping wood.

‘Evening, darling,’ she said when she reached Abby’s check-out.

‘How are you, Eileen?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m depressed. Or lonely. Or both. Did you catch 60 Minutes last night? There was this woman somewhere in the UK who dropped dead in front of her TV, and nobody noticed for seven years. Seven years.’

Eileen was one of the Buy & Bye’s most regular regulars, and Abby had already started bagging up her items: two packs of Winfield Reds and a five-litre cask of Rawlings Pinot Noir, which had the honour of being both their cheapest and largest boxed wine.

Eileen pronounced it Pee-not Norie, and lived by the motto, Don’t ever reach for the top shelf unless you’re not the one who’s paying.

‘Can you imagine what was left of the poor woman when her family finally bothered to drop by for a visit? Mummified. Liquefied. Erk. Do me a favour, Abby: if a week goes by and you haven’t seen me in here, come knock on my door.’

‘Of course,’ Abby said. ‘It’s all part of the service here at the Buy & Bye. We help you find what you’re looking for, pack your shopping bags, and every once in a while check you’re not a corpse.’