‘For coming down at such short notice. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say, although that’s not true. Choosing Kate may have been the last straw between Owen and me, and that’s frightening. ‘Tell me … tell me about the police,’ I say instead, trying not to think about what I may have done.

Kate doesn’t answer straight away; instead she turns back to where the moka pot is hissing and takes it off the heat, pours out two small cups, and brings one across to me. I put Freya back down on the rug, as I take it, careful not to put it anywhere her soft chubby hands can reach.

‘That fucking Mark Wren,’ Kate says at last, as she curls onto the armchair opposite. ‘He came to see me. Full of this must be a difficult time for you, but he knows. I don’t know what Mary’s told him, but he knows something’s not right.’

‘So the body … it’s definitely been identified?’ I ask, even though I know it has, I’ve seen the newspaper reports. But somehow I need to hear it from Kate’s lips, see her reaction as she tells me.

There is nothing I can glean from her expression, though, as she nods in weary confirmation.

‘Yes, I think so. They took a DNA swab from me, but they know it’s pretty much a certainty. They said something about dental records, and they showed me his ring.’

‘Did they ask you to identify it?’

‘Yes, I said it was his. It seemed … well, it seemed foolish not to.’

I nod. Kate’s right of course. Part of the Lying Game was always to know when the game was up, when to bail out. Rule Five – know when to stop lying. Throw in your hand before the shit hits the fan, as Thee used to put it. The trick was to know when you’d got to that point. But I’m not sure if we’ve succeeded this time. It feels like the trouble is coming no matter what we do.

‘So what next?’

‘They’ve asked me to come in and make a statement, about the night he disappeared. But that’s the thing, we need to decide – do I tell them you were all here?’ She rubs her hands over her face, the shadows beneath her eyes brown against her olive skin. ‘I don’t know what to say for the best. I could tell them I called you, when I found Dad was missing – asked you to come over. We could back up each other’s stories – just say we were all here, but there was no sign of Dad and you left early. But then they’ll ask you all for statements too. It all comes down to what the school knows.’

‘What the school knows?’ I echo stupidly.

‘About that night. Did anyone see you leave? If I say you weren’t here and people find out you were, it could all backfire.’

I understand. I try to think back. We were in our rooms when she came to find us, but Miss Weatherby, she saw our clothes, the mud on my sandals. And she said something, in her office, something about us breaking out of bounds, about a witness …

‘I think we were seen,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Or at least, Miss Weatherby said we were. She didn’t say who. We didn’t admit anything – well, I didn’t, I don’t know about Fatima and Thea.’

‘Fuck. So I’ll have to tell them I was here that night, and you were too. And that means you’ll all be dragged in for questioning, probably.’ Her face is white, and I know what she is thinking – it’s not just the worry about the distress this will cause to the rest of us, there’s a more practical, more selfish element to it too. Whether four sets of stories can hold together under questioning. Whether someone might crack …

I think about Thea, about her drinking, about the marks on her arms, about the toll that this is taking on her. And I think about Fatima, and her new-found faith. Sincere repentance, she said. What if that includes confession, as part of making things right? Surely Allah can’t forgive someone who continues to lie and cover up?

And I think too about the pictures. Those bloody pictures in the mail. About the fact that there is someone else out there who knows something.

‘Kate,’ I say, and I swallow, and then stop. She turns to look at me, and I force myself on. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. Fatima and Thea and I, we got … we got some pictures. In the mail. Copies. Of drawings.’

Kate’s face changes, and I realise she knows already what I am going to say. I am not sure whether that makes it easier, or harder, but I force myself onwards, bringing the words out in a rush so I can’t lose my nerve.

‘Did you really destroy all the pictures your dad did of us?’

‘Yes,’ Kate says. Her face is wretched. ‘I swear it. But not –’ She stops, and suddenly I don’t want to hear what she’s about to say, but it’s too late. She presses her lips together in a white, bloodless line. ‘But not straight away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to burn them right after he died, I meant to, but I just – I don’t know, I could never find the right time. But one day I went up to his studio and someone had been there.’

‘What?’ I don’t try to hide my shock. ‘When was this?’

‘Years ago. Not long after it all happened. There were paintings missing, and drawings, and I knew someone had been in there looking. I burned them all after that, I swear it, but then the letters started.’

I feel coldness drip through me like poison.

‘Letters?’

‘It was just one at first,’ Kate’s voice is low. ‘I sold a painting of Dad’s. The auction was reported in the local press along with what it sold for, and a few weeks later I got a letter, asking for money. It didn’t make any threats, just asked for a hundred pounds to be left in an envelope behind a loose panel in the Salten Arms. I did nothing, and few weeks later the letter came again, only this time it was asking for two hundred and there was a drawing enclosed.’

‘A drawing of us.’ My voice is flat, sick. Kate nods.

‘I paid up. The letters came again, every now and again, maybe one every six months, and I paid and paid, but at last I wrote a letter saying that was it, I couldn’t pay any more – that the Mill was sinking and Dad’s paintings were gone, and they could ask all they wanted but the money just wasn’t there. And the letters stopped.’

‘When was that?’

‘About two or three years ago. I didn’t hear anything after that, and I thought it had stopped, but then a few weeks ago they started again. First it was the sheep and then …’ She swallows. ‘Then after you left, I got a letter saying Why don’t you ask your friends? But I never dreamt –’

‘Jesus Christ, Kate!’ I stand up, too full of nerves to keep still, but there is nowhere to go and I sit again, picking restlessly at the frayed material of the sofa. I want to say, why didn’t you tell us? But I know why. Because Kate has been trying to protect us, all these years. I want to ask, why didn’t you go to the police? But I know that too. I want to say, they’re only pictures. But we know – we both know – that’s not true. The pictures don’t matter. It’s the note with the sheep that tells the whole story.

‘I keep wondering …’ Kate says in a low voice, and then stops.

‘Go on,’ I prompt her. She twists her fingers together, and then gets up and goes across to the dresser. In one of the drawers is a sheaf of papers, bound together with a piece of red string, and right in the middle of the sheaf is a letter in an envelope, very old and creased. It’s a letter that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

‘Is that –?’ I manage, and Kate nods.

‘I kept it. I didn’t know what else to do.’

She holds it out to me, and for a minute I’m reluctant to take it, thinking of forensics and fingerprints, but it’s too late. We handled that note seventeen years ago, all of us. I take it, very gently, as though using the tips of my fingers will make it harder to trace back to me, but I don’t open it. I don’t need to. Now that the letter is in my hands, the phrases float up through from the deep water of my memory – so sorry … don’t blame yourself, my sweet … the only thing I can do to make things right …