It’s nothing new, I tell myself. I’ve seen it all: a family carried out in body bags after the father killed them all and then himself because he was in debt; the bloodied pavement where a terrorist attack took place outside Madame Tussaud’s; a tent erected in the woods after a missing teenager was found dead. With each story I had to remain detached for my sanity. But this. This is different. This is Heather.

I turn off the engine and stare straight ahead, my hands gripping the steering wheel. The front door is around the side. But from here I can see into the bay window of the living room. I remember that room. Heather and I used to snuggle under blankets during the winter, the smell of burning wood and ash from the open fire making our nostrils itch. I take a deep breath. I can almost remember the smell, the feeling of contentment. There’s a woman at the window, partly obscured by the gossamer net curtains. Her face is in shadow, but by the set of her hair in its familiar chignon and the shape of her long, elegant neck and sharp nose, I know she’s Heather’s mum, Margot.

‘So?’ Jack asks, turning to face me. When I don’t say anything, he adds gently, ‘The shooter. It’s your one-time friend, isn’t it?’

I nod and blink away tears before he notices. He’ll tease me mercilessly. Tears don’t go with my persona as a hard-nosed journalist. Jack often says I’m as hard as nails. I think he admires it.

‘Shit,’ he mutters, under his breath, but I notice a light in his eyes. Of course he’s going to be excited by this – I would be, too, if I were him, if it was someone else. Anyone else. But not her. Not Heather. Jack’s hoping this will be our way in, and I’ve had the same thought. Yet it could be a hindrance. I might be the last person Margot wants to see. I wouldn’t blame her. I can still recall her final words to me on the phone all those years ago, her acidic, accusing tone, her once-friendly voice brittle and strained. I grip the steering wheel, unable to move, uncertain of the reaction I’ll get.