The single row of paving stones leading to the front door has been kept clean of winter slime. The patch of brown lawn is short. The bins stand to attention on one side of the door. Just behind the still-white net curtains, Maggie can see a row of china ornaments: female figures, in period costume; six of them, each perfectly spaced, each facing at exactly the same angle into the room within. The sound of her knocking has barely time to fade before the front door opens. Brenda stands facing her. ‘When’s it going to be? When’s he going to show us where Zoe is?’ ‘Brenda, I really don’t think you should get your hopes up. Hamish is still claiming he didn’t kill Zoe.’ She follows the older woman to the kitchen. It is a small room, dated, but immaculately tidy. ‘He said, though. He said if you went to see him, he’d show us. Kimberly, make Miss Rose a cup of tea.’ ‘I’m afraid he didn’t. That letter was from his mother.’ The muscles around Brenda’s mouth twitch.
