‘Send it to me. I’ll read through it tonight when things have calmed down a bit. I’m assuming it will hold until Monday’s paper.’ For all their parent company’s PR fluff about running a seven-day operation, there was still a rivalry between the daily and its Sunday stablemate. Although the editors sometimes shared stories that would otherwise leak, both were keen to preserve their own exclusives. He broke off to shout at the unfortunate duty reporter, who’d been hoping for a quiet shift, before turning his attention back to them. ‘In the eyes of the law, Sara Carter is a convicted killer. If she wants her story to be heard, she needs to make a formal statement to the police. At least then, we’ll have a way in, something to hang it on.’

‘Colin, this is a huge story—’

‘Look, get her under contract, don’t let her out of your sight and we’ll talk in the morning. We’ll find a way to run something, but I need to think about it. Well done, love. Good job. But I’ve got to go now. Call me tomorrow.’

With that, he was gone.

‘He’s right,’ said Catherine softly. ‘We can’t just expect the public to believe us. I’ll go to the police station in the morning and make a statement. That’s the new angle, right?’

Disappointment was coming off Brinley in waves. She nodded, furious tears in her eyes. She typed out an email to Colin, attached several word documents, two photographs and pressed send. ‘Sorry. I’ve let you down again.’

‘I’ve waited twenty-one years for justice,’ said Catherine. ‘I can wait another night.’

The women lit the fire. They drank red wine and ate blue-veined cheese and salted crackers, olives stuffed with garlic and chilli. They talked of the years since the killings at Hilltop House, their lives and loves, their families and heartbreaks. The loneliness of carrying a secret that could not be shared. Of wasted chances and guilt and fear.

When they had finished talking, they sat in the kind of quiet contemplation that comes from relief and understanding, a remaking of friendship, the tender shoots of hope.

The night drew its cloak around them, trying to shield them. But even in its dark grasp, they were not protected, the uncurtained window of light drawing the gaze of the unwelcome.

At five to midnight, they hugged each other goodnight.

At twenty-seven minutes past twelve, both women were asleep.

At half past one, a small panel of glass in the back door was broken and the breaker in the fuse-box was tripped, killing all power to the house.