The driver set off again, exited the motorway, negotiated several roundabouts and drove them down a long, narrow road flanked with bare trees and snow-covered fields. A rabbit, startled by the noise of the car, streaked across the road. There were few cars and fewer houses.

Honor mumbled in her sleep, beginning to stir. The sound woke Edward.

‘Where are we?’ he said, stifling a yawn.

They were pulling into the car park of a hotel, neither too big nor too small. It was part of a chain with clean, impersonal rooms, a quick turnover of guests, both business and leisure, and a degree of anonymity. Nobody would ask too many questions. This was a place for itinerants. A place to get lost.

‘Just for tonight,’ said Eliza, ‘until we find you somewhere more permanent. It’s paid for. Don’t volunteer information, but if you’re put on the spot, explain you’re changing jobs and you’ve come to look at some houses with your family and explore the area.’

The probation officer handed Catherine an envelope. ‘There’s some cash in here, not much, but enough for a couple of days. No social media. Don’t use your credit or debit cards, or your mobile phones. The press has ways of tracing them.’

Edward and Honor, blinking in the cold air, walked through the glass doors into the hotel lobby.

Eliza hugged Catherine. She smelled of cigarette smoke and kinship. ‘Try not to worry.’

Catherine held on to her, tearful. Eliza was the closest thing she had to a mother. With so much at stake, the idea of losing her husband and daughter was enough to break her.

‘Come now,’ said Eliza, gruff-voiced, patting her on the back. The older woman tucked a strand of Catherine’s hair behind her ear. ‘You’ll be all right.’ Catherine nodded, unable to speak.

Catherine watched the car until its tail lights disappeared into the bleached winter landscape. She was still standing on the tarmac when Honor, sulky-faced and reluctant, came to tell her that breakfast was now being served.

50

The newspapers are spread across the table, their pages marked with grease, egg yolk and scattered granules of sugar.

A sausage sandwich arrives, butter oozing from thick slices of bread, and I take a large bite, ketchup at the corners of my mouth. After a freezing all-nighter on Sara Carter’s doorstep, my stomach was rumbling when we walked, en masse, into this cafe. The food is warm and delicious, but Lawrie is poring over today’s papers, and I put the sandwich back on my plate, hunger suddenly gone.

My byline is printed on the front page of the newspaper alongside the headline:

MY FRIEND, THE ANGEL OF DEATH