‘You know you’re going to have to tell me at some stage what happened at the Harvest Festival, Connie. What you did to Ness . . . There are several statements; there were many witnesses. So I know what they say. But I need to hear it from you; I need to know what was going on inside your head . . .’

No response. She reached out to tuck Connie’s cold hand back underneath the blanket. She wasn’t going to get anything out of her today.

‘I told you, she pressed no charges,’ Emma coaxed.

She took another deep drag and studied Connie’s face. What pushed her to it? What was the trigger? She tried to imagine what the daily reality of life must have been like in that comfortable area where people said good morning and how’s so and so and picked up each other’s kids from school. She wondered how she herself would have coped. Ness was part of the infrastructure of Connie’s life: their children, their houses virtually next door, the school gates, posting letters, at the shops, getting into her car. What had it been like when word got out, blinds opened and closed, the scandal, the tittle-tattle, the pity, the judgement, how people would know better, say they saw it coming. How humiliating it must have been.

High up she watched a bird soar across the blue. She needed to be patient with Connie. She thought of her as a ball of tangled string that could only be unpicked slowly, methodically, keeping hold of the loose end, nails in the knots, teeth if need be.

Emma checked her watch. It was almost time to go back in; as she turned to get up, she was surprised to see that Connie’s lips were parted. She was trying to say something.

Emma moved closer. ‘What, Connie? Tell me.’

She put her ear close to Connie’s lips. ‘Or . . .’ Connie whispered huskily. ‘Orchestra!’ Emma looked at her sharply, eye to eye. Connie was smiling. She gave a puny, rasping laugh.

Chapter 14