‘I put in a complaint about her,’ Holly continued. ‘I did some digging and apparently she’s about to be sacked; that right, Mary? For cheating the system. She told me she’s sick of jargon and trickery, tired of trying to help men who should be locked up.’ Holly tossed her copy of the home background report on the table. ‘So much for rehabilitation. Can’t we take this back to the parole board? Surely a feral feminazi social worker should not have this kind of power.’

Many responses raced through Mary’s brain: like the list of letters that followed her name. Few folk understood why someone who’d completed a degree in law would choose to be a social worker, but Mary could give a good answer: by accident – her Higher results made her do it. One semester in, though, she realised she wouldn’t feel good about herself as a defence lawyer, and that she was not capable of bowing to men in wigs.

Mary had been in more difficult meetings than this, and Holly was right, she didn’t give a damn anymore. A twenty-six-year-old with daddy issues wouldn’t scare her. She handed another pile of complaint forms to the girl. ‘I’d fill in another one if I were you. You think I’m incompetent, you should check out head office. Ask the lawyer, Holly; he’s sitting right there with legal advice inside his bright head just waiting to get out. What say you and your qualifications, Mr Harding? Do I have this kind of power? Should Liam appeal my decision about the address?’

Lawyer man whispered to Liam, who whispered to Holly, and their defeated expressions prompted Mary to continue. ‘I was saying that I don’t approve of you living with your daughter, Liam, because you murdered a known adult female and the risk assessments conclude it is highly likely that you will be violent to a woman you are close to or intimate with if a few factors come together the way they did ten years ago. The risk factors are all explained in the parole report.’

‘Factors like Mum fucking about?’ Holly scowled. ‘I told you she was screwing around for ages. She was on other affair websites, you know, not just Eat.It.Too. She treated him like shit. I saw her hit him over the head with an egg whisk, but whoever talks about that? Did they think to mention that in court? No, because Dad wanted to protect her memory.’

Her dad intervened. ‘It was a pestle, hon.’

‘A pestle?’ Mary couldn’t stop herself saying. ‘I hear those things can really mangle your peppercorn.’

Macdowall ignored her; probably sensible. ‘I have a backup plan housing-wise.’

The labels were piling up around this Liam Macdowall: entitled, manipulative. Eyes.

‘And what would that be?’