‘It was hardly on my doorstep. I was surrounded by countryside mostly. There were a lot of cowpats.’

He turns so that he’s facing the row of terraced houses on Shackleton Road and starts taking more snaps. I follow him as he enters the Wilsons’ front garden. There are no new flowers or cards, and the bouquets that were left there after it happened are all dead, the leaves paper-thin and brown. I wonder who will remove them. A family member, perhaps. I think of the message, This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Who could have written it? And why?

I still can’t believe this happened. That Heather did something so … brutal.

‘I want to try the other next-door neighbours again,’ I say to Jack, as he stands back, checking his viewfinder. They were away on the day of the shootings, but they might know something about Clive or Deirdre.

I walk to the house on the right of the Wilsons’. It’s painted a pale ice-cream pink, with shutters at the windows. It has an extra floor, dwarfing Deirdre and Clive’s house. I knock, Jack at my shoulder, and wait, hoping they’re in. It’s eleven so they’re most likely at work. Jack and I really need to try in the evening. Just when we’re about to retreat down the front path, the door opens revealing a woman in a dressing-gown. She’s around forty, with a tissue pressed to her nose. She looks like she’s just got out of bed.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I begin, then introduce myself and Jack. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your neighbours, Clive and Deirdre Wilson?’

She blinks at us, as though the light is too bright for her eyes. ‘Which paper are you from again?’

‘The Bristol and Somerset Herald.’

She shrugs and, to my surprise and excitement, she lets us into the house. ‘Excuse the state of me,’ she says. ‘Terrible cold. Taking a sickie. But don’t put that in the paper.’ She laughs, then coughs dramatically while Jack and I look on helplessly.

When she’s recovered she indicates that we follow her into the living room. It’s spacious, decorated in various shades of grey, with a huge bay window and high ceilings. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ I say. The view is even better from here than it is at the Brights’ house, on the other side of the Wilsons’, which is slightly obscured by the lifeboat station.

‘Thanks. Please, sit.’

Jack and I perch on the sofa, as far away from her as possible, not wanting to catch her germs. I reach into my bag for my notebook. ‘So, your name …?’

She perches on the window-seat. ‘I’m Netta Black.’

‘And how well did you know Deirdre and Clive?’ I ask.