‘I’m Rita, by the way,’ she said. ‘Rita Cranleigh. Have you come far?’

‘Down from Glasgow.’

Rita led her into the hallway, which was dark after the bright sunshine outside. There was oak panelling on the walls, absorbing a lot of the light, and causing both of their footsteps to reverberate from the varnished boards below. Jasmine could see a staircase leading to a gallery above, three doors visible along it. They were all firmly closed. She thought she could still hear the children’s voices, somewhere behind one of them.

Rita caught her glancing upwards, detecting her curiosity at her surroundings. She led her beyond the staircase, past more closed doors, and on into a huge kitchen towards the rear. Jasmine could hear the chainsaw louder and closer, though she couldn’t see who was wielding it; despite the allaying of her unease, she was now actually pretty sure that a chainsaw it was.

‘You’re wondering what this place is, aren’t you?’ Rita said, sounding strangely assured by Jasmine’s curiosity.

‘I’m not here to pry,’ she insisted politely. ‘Well, not into that, I mean,’ she added with a self-conscious giggle. (Because I’m an investigator, me. Really, really, really.)

‘It’s a refuge,’ Rita told her neutrally. ‘A safe house. The women here generally don’t want their whereabouts to be known, so you’ll forgive me if I was a little defensive earlier.’

‘Not at all. Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose I could actually have said anything worse than that I’m a private investigator.’

‘No,’ Rita agreed, offering a wry smile as she filled the kettle. ‘Although the likelihood is that a private investigator come in search of one of our residents wouldn’t announce his or her profession up front.’

Jasmine worried for a moment that this was Rita’s way of saying she had seen right through her as a shambling amateur, which was probably why she offered a renewed reason to suspect her by way of response.

‘Could always be a double bluff. Allay your suspicions by asking after a man.’

‘No,’ Rita replied, almost amused by the notion. She opened a large double-door fridge-freezer and took out a carton of milk, placing it on the kitchen table next to a sugar bowl. ‘They wouldn’t know to ask for Tron Ingrams. He’s discreet about his involvement with us. And believe me, they wouldn’t be asking for him by way of subterfuge. He’d see through them in a twinkling.’

‘What is his involvement with you?’