‘I thought you were going to tell Edward about your past,’ said Eliza softly. ‘He rang me last night, asking all sorts of questions.’

‘How much did he know?’ Catherine thought she might cry at the thought of Edward carrying this burden alone.

‘He had an inkling that something was up. Apparently, he overheard a conversation between us a couple of weeks ago when he came home early from work. Did a bit of digging of his own.’ Eliza withdrew a cigarette from the packet and put it behind her ear. ‘With all the coverage the documentary’s been getting, he was struck by the resemblance between you and Shannon as young women, but he didn’t suspect the truth, at least, not at first. He thought you were cousins.’ She paused for breath. ‘You said you were going to tell him.’

She had always planned to. On her release, the probation team had warned her about a similar scenario. They had encouraged her to think carefully about whom she told and when, suggesting Catherine wait until she was confident of their feelings for her, and of a mutual trust.

She had thought about confessing in those glowing hours and weeks after Honor was born, the words bubbling up inside, a hectic, heat-filled disclosure. But it was always easier not to. She had boxed up that part of her life, all the photographs and the hundreds of press cuttings, the death threats from her father’s patients that had started to arrive while she was on remand, the vitriolic letters and the cards, the mourning song of the village community, and left it behind in the unit.

On the day she had walked out of Mayfields and entered Identity Protection, a fresh page had turned and her life had begun again.

Often, she wondered if it had been easier for her because she hadn’t killed them. That although she carried the scars of an eight-year sentence, she was not freighted down with guilt. For all her freedom, Shannon would always drag behind her the heavy chains of what she had done.

Several times, during those terrible years in Mayfields, she had almost confessed the truth to her barrister. But she had witnessed the shock and confusion of fellow residents when they discovered, too late, that denial of guilt could adversely influence the decision of the Parole Board.

‘It’s considered an indicator of continuing risk,’ her barrister had explained.

She had not been prepared to take that chance.

The car settled into silence. Catherine had no idea where they were going and did not ask. Above them, the sky was lightening at pace. The driver stopped at a service station and Eliza, leaning against the door, smoked her cigarette in quick drags. Catherine rubbed her eyes, gritty with lack of sleep, but she wasn’t tired. Every nerve ending was jangling with adrenalin and what the day might bring.