Mr Mason closed his eyes, muttered a prayer and braced for impact, not yet knowing that the next twenty seconds would confine him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

The Right Honourable Geoffrey Heathcote, Justice Secretary and Member of Parliament, was still conscious when the petrol tanker ploughed into the side of his Jaguar, rupturing his spleen, breaking his right arm and both legs, collapsing his lung, splintering five ribs and caving in the side of his skull.

He was barely conscious when another vehicle – a second-hand Mini driven by an eighteen-year-old girl on her way home from university for the holidays – struck the opposite side of his car, the force of the impact killing her instantly and shattering his windscreen, flakes of snow drifting through the jagged edges of the glass to land on his face like tears.

By the time fire licked its flaming tongue against the dashboard, melting the radio into silence and guaranteeing him a final front page, Geoffrey Heathcote, whose self-inflicted downfall had been forensically documented by an unforgiving press, was dead.

59

Pearline’s sofa is battered but squashy, and the lace-edged back covers scratching my face offer a strange kind of comfort. I doze in front of the electric fire, my feet tucked beneath a blanket.

It’s late, touching midnight. Time has taken on an elastic quality, stretching and retracting, and it’s twenty-four hours since I heard about Aunt Peg, and it feels like forever and no time at all.

Lawrie is gone, back on the job. He’d explained to Colin what had happened – not the details, just the fact that Peg was dead – and the news editor had told him to tell me to take some time off, although I bet he’s complaining behind my back. Lawrie had splashed his face in Pearline’s sink and downed a cup of her strong coffee before heading down to Kent to collect his car and get back out on the story.

‘Take care of yourself,’ he’d said, and his eyes had added something more, although I couldn’t read what it was. ‘Will you stay here for a while?’

I’d shrugged, uncertain. For obvious reasons, I can’t go back to the flat I shared with my aunt, and I like it at Pearline’s. It makes me feel close to Peg, and our neighbour has a warmth about her that soothes me, cooking nutritious meals and enfolding me in sudden hugs.

As soon as Lawrie had closed the door behind him, I’d called the police officer who’d left his card for me. He arrives an hour later, bringing in the cold day on his fiery hair and the heightened patches of colour on his cheeks.

‘Did your aunt have any enemies?’ He sniffs Pearline’s Rooibos tea dubiously and puts it back on the table without taking a sip.

I’m so shocked by this line of questioning I laugh. ‘Everyone loved her.’