Sheila bundled a sleepy twelve-year-old Meredith into her thick duffle coat. “You're coming to live with me and Uncle Norman for a while, darling. You'll have lots of other children to play with in Sheffield.” “She's got children to play with here,” said Peg. “Don't take her, Sheila.” There was something pathetic in Peg's voice. It was many years before Meredith recognised it as the fear of loneliness. Sheila turned to her sister, and her expression softened. “I know it's not your fault, love. You just can't help yourself when it comes to murder. But it's not safe for Meredith. You must see that.” “Are you saying you don't trust me around her?” “As I said, it's not your fault.” Peg put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder, gently brushing back a wisp of strawberry blonde hair that covered the child’s green eyes. “You be good for your Aunty Sheila and Uncle Norman. Promise you won't forget your old Aunty Peg.” Meredith threw her arms around her aunt.
