Sophie speaks in a careful, neutral voice, as if she’s negotiating the release of a hostage from a mad terrorist. ‘Gosh, Veronika, that sounds intriguing.’

‘Yup,’ says Veronika. ‘I don’t suppose you need me to bring anything, do you? And obviously I don’t need your new address. I’ll stay the night, shall I?’

Sophie recoils as if she’s been shot in the stomach. She silently bangs her fist against her forehead and says, ‘Of course. We can have breakfast together.’

‘Maybe,’ says Veronika in an if-you’re-lucky tone. ‘But I should see Mum and Enigma and Aunt Rose while I’m there on the island. And Grace and the baby of course. Anyway, if I can fit in breakfast with you I will.’

‘That’s all I can ask,’ says Sophie faintly.

‘Gotta run! See you next week!’ shouts Veronika, as if she’s run off somewhere and is calling back over her shoulder. She slams down the phone.

Making the family skeleton dance, thinks Sophie. Oh dear, Veronika. Something tells me it’s not meant to dance for you until your fortieth birthday.

Veronika brings a housewarming present when she comes to visit. It is a sculptured abstract figure of a woman raising her hands in consternation as if at some new puzzle of life. It’s both beautiful and funny.

‘Oh Veronika, I just absolutely love it,’ says Sophie truthfully, feeling quite overwhelmed with gratitude in the circumstances.

‘Of course you do!’ Veronika has a very bad cold. She sucks ferociously on a cough lolly. ‘I knew you would. I bought it for you the same day I was really angry with you. Very expensive too. That’s the thing about you. You make people want to please you. It’s not a compliment, by the way. No need to blush.’

‘I’m not blushing,’ says Sophie. Veronika is the only person Sophie knows who not only doesn’t look away when Sophie blushes but actually provides a running commentary on progress. ‘Oh, look, it’s reached your forehead. I wonder if your scalp blushes?!’

‘So, you haven’t changed the place much, I see.’ Veronika marches through the house like a nosy landlord, opening cupboards and drawers, even ripping back the shower curtain in the bathroom. Sophie trots behind her, full of pride and pleasure as they enter each room.

‘Are there any of Aunt Connie’s old papers or anything still here?’ asks Veronika suspiciously when they get to what used to be Connie’s office.

‘No, your mum cleaned out the whole place before I moved in. The house was sparkling. She’s so lovely, Margie. And she works like a Trojan, doesn’t she?’

‘Well, she obviously finds time to eat.’

‘She’s lost ten kilos so far at Weight Watchers! She’s doing very well.’

‘I know she’s going to Weight Watchers! You don’t need to tell me about my own mother. It was my present to her for Christmas. I’m sick of hearing Dad tease her about her weight. He treats her like a dirty doormat and she acts like one. It makes me sick watching them. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that.’

‘Maybe losing weight will give her new confidence to stand up to your dad?’

‘I hope it gives her enough confidence to leave him.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Veronika puts on a prissy voice to mimic Sophie. ‘We don’t all have a fairytale mummy and daddy like you.’

Oh this was going to be such a fun night.

‘My parents send their love, by the way.’

‘Are they proud of the way you got your hands on this house?’

Sophie breathes deeply. She is Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story.

‘I hope you’re hungry. I’ve cooked your Aunt Connie’s recipe for Honey Sage Chicken.’

‘I’m not actually that hungry.’ Veronika marches into the kitchen. She opens the oven door and peers inside. ‘It looks ready to me. Don’t overcook it.’

‘Her instructions were very firm about cooking for exactly fifty minutes,’ says Sophie. She had felt Aunt Connie’s presence peering over her shoulder the whole time she was cooking.

‘You’ve got to follow your own instincts when it comes to cooking, you know, Sophie.’ Veronika slams the oven door shut and sits down at the kitchen table. She taps her fingers rapidly. ‘Did the recipe call for a spoonful of arsenic?’

‘Not that I noticed.’ Sophie rather desperately opens the fridge to look for the white wine she’d bought to go with the chicken.

‘I wonder what poison she used to murder my great-grandparents.’

Sophie gapes at Veronika over the fridge door. ‘You don’t seriously think your Aunt Connie killed Alice and Jack. She was only nineteen!’

‘Oh and nineteen-year-olds aren’t capable of murder. Ha, ha!’ Veronika gives Sophie the tired look of a hardened crime investigator who has seen many a brutal sight you couldn’t even imagine, young lady.

Sophie finds two wine glasses and pours their wine. ‘All right then, well, what was her motive?’ It’s rather enjoyable using words like ‘motive’ in casual conversation. It makes her feel like one of those tough, resourceful forensic experts on TV shows like CSI. Sophie flicks her hair back, squares her shoulders and sticks her br**sts out. Those women always have very confident br**sts.

Veronika takes a gulp of her wine while still chewing on her cough lolly. Sophie winces. It is doubtful that the cough lolly is contributing much to the chardonnay’s buttery undertones.

‘Well, obviously Connie was having an affair with Jack Munro,’ says Veronika. ‘His wife had probably lost interest in sex, you see, after Enigma was born. Men always feel neglected after their wives have babies.’

‘Oh I see,’ says Sophie. She wonders if Callum feels neglected. Just a little bit? She hopes so. Oh, stop it, you foolish, idiotic girl. You don’t even mean it. Some crime-scene investigator you are.

Veronika continues with her explanation. ‘So Jack keeps promising Connie that he’ll leave Alice and he never does. You know, the way they always promise they’ll leave their wives and they never do.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ Sophie feels suitably chastised.

‘Connie finally realises this. She goes mad with jealous rage, poisons them both and helps herself to the baby.’