‘I am on your side, and that’s why no daughter of mine will be permitted to assault her classmate and use foul language.’ A deliberate pause for impact. ‘Wait until your father hears about this.’

‘No!’ The Carter sisters cried out in unison. A tear trickled unchecked down Shannon’s face. Mrs Carter glanced at the older girl in the rear-view mirror. For a moment, the hard set of her features softened, a curtain pulled back to reveal herself. ‘I have to tell him,’ she said. ‘Before he hears it from someone else.’ Sara scrabbled for the right words to appeal to their mother. ‘Please, Pamela,’ she said. ‘The girls are always mean to Shannon. It’s been going on for ages—’

‘Shut up!’ A hiss from Shannon.

‘You should tell her,’ she hissed back.

‘As if that will make a difference.’

‘Whispering is very rude.’ Mrs Carter’s voice cut through their exchange, the curtain falling back into place. ‘Is there something you’d like to share, girls?’

‘No, Pamela,’ they said in unison again. Shannon turned back to the window; Sara smoothed out the fabric of the tartan skirt she’d pulled over her leotard, counting its squares.

The car journey continued in silence.

Hilltop House straddled the crest of Hanging Hill Lane, overlooking the village. It was a double-fronted, Georgian-style house with immaculate paintwork and perfectly kept gardens. Dr and Mrs Carter were well respected within the community and were keen on maintaining appearances.

A window cleaner came twice a month and the lawn was scarified every autumn. Seasonal flowers filled the vases and, in the summer, Dr and Mrs Carter hired a marquee and a big band and invited the whole village. They were known for their charity work, their patronage of the village’s local shops, their inclusivity and generosity.

But appearances can be deceptive.

Dr Carter’s personalized Mercedes SLK was parked in the driveway when Mrs Carter pulled in, his two-hour morning surgery finished.

The Carter sisters glanced at each other and Shannon pointed upwards with her finger. Over the years, the girls had developed an unspoken language. This meant: Let’s go upstairs as soon as we get in.

The house was quiet and smelled of lemons and furniture polish. With luck, their father would be in his study, catching up on paperwork. Their mother strode ahead, dropping the car keys into a dish on a bureau in the hallway. ‘Richard, where are you?’

Both girls removed their shoes and put them in the downstairs cupboard, as they had been taught to do since they could walk. They shared another shorthand glance which said they should get changed out of their leotards and wait for Brinley to come to them.