I can’t believe I’m about to see Heather again. How will it be between us after all these years? We’ve both changed so much. I swallow, wishing I had some water.

A police officer is standing outside Heather’s door. A man: young and slim with closely cropped hair and a pointed chin. He doesn’t smile as we approach but he nods to Margot, standing aside to let us pass.

I wasn’t expecting that. She’s in hospital, hardly able to go anywhere. I dart Margot a questioning look but she just shakes her head briefly.

Heather is sitting up in bed when we enter, on top of the blankets. She’s wearing sheepskin slippers and lilac pyjamas, and her hair – which is exactly the same as I remember it – is long and shining, as though it has recently been brushed. She’s older, of course, with faint lines around her eyes, but she’s still got the amazing complexion I remember, pore-less, almost, with a hint of peach at her cheekbones. There is no sign that she’s been so ill, apart from a bandage around her head. She blushes when she sees me but her face breaks into a wide smile – she still has that dimple in her left cheek – and in that moment she’s my fourteen-year-old best friend again. My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away. I must be going soft.

‘Hey, you,’ she says.

I rush towards her bed, then hesitate, wondering whether to give her a hug. But she saves me making that decision by leaning forward, her arms outstretched. I bend towards her and hold her, her silky hair brushing my nose. She smells of shampoo and hospitals.

When we break apart she indicates the chair next to her bed. ‘Please, sit down.’ I take a seat, and pull my skirt over my patterned tights primly, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I should have brought her some flowers, or grapes, or a magazine, or something. I bet she would have if I was the one in the hospital bed. Heather was always thoughtful like that.

Margot clears her throat. ‘I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ she says, retreating from the room so that Heather and I are alone.

‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ says Heather, her eyes bright. ‘You’ve hardly changed.’

‘It’s so lovely to see you too,’ I gush, surprised at myself. I never gush. I’m acting like a teenager, not my usual professional self. I have to remember who she is. Why I’m here. Not just as an old friend, but as a reporter. ‘You’ve not changed a bit. But now you’re married. And a mum!’ And a murderer.