Twelve years ago, in that giddy flush of new love, when they were still unwrapping each other’s truths, he had peppered her with questions, probing her tragedy with gentle but insistent fingers: in the corner of the sticky-floored basement club where they’d danced with each other that first night, eyes catching like silk on roughened wood; over the guitar riffs of a band they’d both loved, sipping pints, bodies pressed up close against the bar; amongst tangled sheets in a suite he’d booked for her nineteenth birthday, her first stay in a hotel and the night their daughter was conceived.

But his concerned interest had the opposite effect. Catherine, finding her way in the world as an adult, shut down and refused to talk about it, preferring to lose herself in the visceral pleasures of sex instead of confronting the brutalities of her personal history. This baffled Edward, who had risen rapidly to become the chief executive of an environmental charity and was used to persuading others to behave as he wished, albeit in a charming way. But because he was also a sensitive man, he had learned, over time, not to push her. For that, she was grateful. The past was a distant place, peopled by strangers, and she no longer visited it.

A log shifted in the burner and the creaking sound of fire brought her back to herself. She put her mug of cold tea on the table.

Less than a week, that was all. The documentary would be screened on Thursday night. A day or two of newspaper headlines. And then the Hilltop House murders would slip back into the shadows and she could breathe again. Edward and Honor need never find out.

A jingle of metal, as familiar as home, followed by the click of a key turning in the front door broke apart the silence. Catherine leaped from her chair but forced herself to walk, not run, down the hallway.

A mulberry-coloured coat. Shiny blonde hair. The thump of a school bag against polished wood. Tiny puddles of melting snowflakes.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Where have you been?’ Catherine spoke with a quiet control, but there was steel in her words.

Honor’s laugh was louder than usual. ‘At school. Where else?’ She turned her back on her mother, hanging her damp coat on the hook. ‘I mean, I was a bit late, but who can blame me when it’s double maths?’ She laughed again and unwound her scarf. ‘They’ve sent us home. Mr Lexden says the snow’s getting too bad and it’s a health and safety issue.’

A fork in the road.

Catherine could confront her daughter. Explain about the phone call from the school office and unleash the full force of her temper. Or she could let it go for now. Savour the peace. Give Honor the benefit of the doubt while maintaining a watchful eye over her.