She’s necking a Valium that her doctor kindly prescribed when she hears someone calling through the letterbox. Of all the nerve! She strides to the front door, ready to give them a ticking-off, when she recognizes Jessica’s voice.

‘… if you let me in the others will go. I promise.’

Her hand falters on the doorknob. Surely she’s just saying that. Another ploy to get her to speak. Oh, she’s heard them all: ‘A chance to tell your side of the story, Mrs Powell’ ‘You can defend your daughter by putting your side across’ ‘Don’t you want the public to see that your daughter is a person? Not just a killer?’

Despite her reservations she pulls back the door to see Jessica standing there with an apprehensive look on her face. If she didn’t know better she’d think the girl was nervous. But that lasts only a millisecond as Jessica’s expression changes to its usual assertive response. Margot notices the girl is still wearing the hideous llama coat.

‘Margot,’ she says, in an urgent tone. ‘I’ve told the other reporters you’ve agreed to talk exclusively to me.’ She holds up a hand when Margot opens her mouth to object. ‘I know it’s a lie but if they think it’s true they won’t bother to stay. There’ll be no point. So please. Just let me in.’

Margot glares at Jessica, then over her shoulder at the other journalists all waiting at the end of the driveway. There’s something about the way they’re standing – the six or seven of them who have congregated – that puts her in mind of a pack of beagles about to go on a hunt.

Silently Margot steps aside to allow Jessica over the threshold. ‘It had better work,’ she mutters, as Jessica walks past.

‘It will,’ says Jessica, confidently.

‘Go through.’

Jessica does as she’s told, then stands awkwardly in the farmhouse kitchen, which hasn’t changed since she was last there eighteen years ago. She notices Jessica’s eyes sweeping the room and landing on a photograph of Flora and Heather as teenagers. ‘Sit down,’ instructs Margot, turning away to fill the kettle. She hears the scraping of chair legs on tiles.

Margot replaces the kettle on the Aga. It hasn’t long since boiled. She has no clue as to whether Jessica’s plan has worked because the kitchen is at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and the fields beyond. In the distance she can see the tree they planted in Flora’s memory – a stunning beech that has now grown tall in the intervening years – and beyond that her own black stallion, Orion, with Heather’s pony, Lucky, grazing. Oh, how Heather loves that little grey, even though she outgrew him years ago. She swallows a lump in her throat when she thinks of her daughter lying so still in that hospital bed.