‘Not yet,’ said Brinley, a knife-edge to her voice, but Catherine didn’t take it personally. Brinley wanted to protect her exclusive. The situation needed handling with care.

A whole day had passed. A day in which Catherine had felt more herself than she had done in years. A day of firsts. Of letting go and putting things right.

What would happen to Shannon now? Would her older sister be arrested? Charged? Would she go into hiding? Or fight dirty, claws out, teeth bared?

And what about the murder of her old friend’s great-aunt? Was it really possible that her sister had killed again, warning Brinley off? Catherine gave an internal headshake. No, Brinley must be mistaken, grief, in all its confusing guises, sending her groping for blame down a blind alley.

But, like a plip of rain breaking the surface of a stagnant pond, a memory stirred. Twelve-year-old Shannon, pyjamas soaked with the blood of their parents, scissors raised high above her head. Teeth gleaming against the rust spots that spattered her skin. A halo of joy crowning the dark reaches of her soul. And doubt gripped Catherine with its cold fingers.

‘Colin, it’s me.’ Brinley had put the news editor on speakerphone, expecting him to be at home. But in the background was the noise and hubbub of the newsroom. Workaholic tendencies meant he was married to the job, not his girlfriend. ‘You’re in the office on your day off?’

‘Don’t you listen to the news?’ he said, with a hint of irritation. Then contrition. ‘Sorry about your aunt. How are you?’

She ignored his question. ‘What’s happened?’

He sighed down the phone. ‘Geoffrey Heathcote died in a car crash last night. Press hounded him to death, apparently. Even though he was the one shagging his mistress. We’re doing a fucking mop-up job here. What can I do for you?’

Catherine held her breath. One last chance to change her mind. But the moment passed and Brinley told him everything.

Colin listened, uncharacteristically quiet, until she had finished.

‘Massive dangling bollocks, slapping against the arse of implausibility,’ he said.

‘Every word of it is true.’

He let out a low whistle. ‘That’s one hell of a story.’

‘I know.’

‘And you have Sara Carter with you right now?’

‘Yes, I have hours of recordings, everything. I’ve written up the whole thing. It’s dynamite.’

A sense of movement, of Colin Baxter, fifty-five-year-old news editor of a national newspaper, experienced but set in his ways, shifting behind his desk and weighing things up.

‘If it is true, it’s a bloody fantastic exclusive, but we can’t just accuse Shannon Carter of murder. That’s libel. Surely you understand that.’

‘I know, but—’