‘Ah, this must be the beautiful Bonnie!’ Carmella exclaimed, rushing over, beaming. ‘She’s gorgeous!’ But her beam faded as Gill held up her free arm as though stopping traffic.

‘Please don’t, she’s almost asleep!’

Bonnie’s head jerked up and then slumped back down again, her eyelids drooping and her curls bouncing. Gill spoke again, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry. I’m about to take her off to bed. You must be Carmella. I’m Gill.’

Carmella shook hands with her. She couldn’t help feeling chastened, as if she’d committed a huge faux pas, which then made her annoyed, because she hadn’t. Gill wasn’t how she had imagined her. She was taller, bigger. Her face was pale, but she had clearly made an effort for the occasion – her long brown hair had been professionally straightened into a sleek curtain and her lips were glossy with coral lipstick. She wasn’t beautiful, certainly, though nor was she plain. She had the sort of smile that lit up her whole face and transformed her.

‘Pat, will you sort out drinks while I get Miss B down for the night? I won’t be long; she’s pretty much out for the count already.’

Simon stood up and stuck out his hand. He was shorter than his wife by about three inches, with a receding hairline and very slightly bulging eyes, but in possession of the sort of charisma that meant it was possible to overlook the physical flaws. ‘Hi! I’m Simon Laughland. Where have you two come from tonight?’

Several minutes of awkward small talk ensued, about where they all lived, and what Patrick had got for his birthday – Gill had bought him tickets for The Cure in March, which impressed Carmella. She was finding it hard to tear her gaze away from Suzanne, who looked completely different to her rather buttoned-up work appearance. She was wearing a short grey silk dress, killer heels and her blonde hair was in long, loose curls down her back.

Patrick handed around a tray of something sparkling. ‘Well, it is my birthday,’ he commented, slightly sheepishly. ‘The missus insisted. I’m sure a little sip or two is allowed . . .’ He looked at Suzanne, who smiled at him.

‘Of course!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘To Pat! Happy birthday.’

Carmella noticed that Suzanne hadn’t waited until ‘the missus’ returned to do the toast.

After that, the evening progressed in the way of most dinner parties where the guests aren’t already close friends: awkward and slightly stilted for the first hour, until alcohol – mostly being consumed by Jenny and Simon, with Gill sipping at a small glass – smoothed off all the scratchy edges. Loud, muffled music through the thin party wall was mingling badly with the mellow Spotify playlist that the Lennons were playing, so Patrick turned it off. For a while nobody talked shop, out of deference to the civilian attendees – Simon, it turned out, was a management consultant – until Jenny brought up the subject.

‘So,’ she said in Suzanne’s direction, as Gill cleared away the remnants of their prawn cocktails. ‘What’s the latest with the big investigation? Thanks, Gill, that was delicious – I love a retro starter, me . . .’

Carmella frowned warningly at her. An expression flashed across Gill’s face that suggested perhaps she thought Jenny was having a dig, although Carmella knew she wasn’t.

‘She’s not kidding. It’s your favourite sort of food, isn’t it, darling?’ Carmella added hastily. ‘Prawn cocktail, Black Forest gateau, gammon and pineapple – you’re a seventies throwback.’

‘Are you any closer to finding who killed those girls?’ Jenny persisted, ignoring Carmella. ‘Jessica McMasters was a pupil at my school, you know. Everyone’s devastated.’

‘We’re working flat out,’ Patrick said – defensively, Carmella thought – from across the kitchen, where he was carving slices from a fragrant garlic-studded leg of lamb. ‘What do you teach, Jenny?’ Carmella could tell he was anxious to change the subject and she felt slightly annoyed with Jenny.

‘Geography – and I’m deputy head too. So, any new leads? Carmella won’t tell me anything!’

‘Oh I know,’ Gill interjected. ‘I’m always badgering Pat to dish the dirt and he never does!’

Carmella made a face at Patrick and he grinned back at her. But Suzanne, who was completely sober, upbraided Gill. ‘Dish the dirt? We’re talking about young girls being murdered here, not the gossip at the local WI!’

There was a shocked silence round the table. Gill, who had been in the middle of handing around plates of meat, froze briefly and the smile fell off her face.

‘It’s just a figure of speech,’ she said, her voice brittle.

‘Of course!’ Patrick jumped to his feet and helped her pass a plate to Simon. Carmella noticed him take his e-cigarette from his shirt pocket and heave a long, desperate drag into his lungs when he turned away to fetch another serving spoon from the cutlery drawer. There was a prickly feeling in the air, like pre-storm static electricity, and her scar started itching again in recognition of it.

Suzanne didn’t apologise, but, in a noticeable effort to be conciliatory, said, ‘It’s a pretty stressful time . . .’ Her husband glared at her.

Jenny pitched in. ‘I heard that Shawn Barrett’s got form . . . And as for that creep Mervyn Hammond!’ Then she glanced at Suzanne. ‘I mean, I didn’t hear any of that from Carmella, obviously, she never tells me anything either, just the kids at school, rumours, you know . . .’

Carmella felt like sinking her head into her hands. She waited for Suzanne to tear Jenny off a strip, but the boss merely smiled and said, ‘It’s OK, Jenny. We all talk to our other halves.’

‘Pat never talks to me,’ said Gill, overly brightly, dishing up a bowl of steaming peas. She somehow managed to make it sound simultaneously like a compliment and an accusation.

As they ate, Simon and Patrick engaging in a desultory discussion about Brighton and Hove Albion’s surprisingly good recent form, someone’s mobile began to buzz, just audible over the sound of scraping cutlery and the bass thumping through the walls.

They all looked around at each other.

‘Whose is that?’ Suzanne asked.

The women delved into handbags and Patrick slipped his hand into his back pocket.

‘It’s mine,’ he said, extracting it and frowning at the screen. ‘Sorry, it’s the station, need to take it.’

He stood up and walked a little way away over to the French windows where he leaned against the glass, his back to them all.

‘Lennon.’

Carmella watched him intently, her glass halfway to her lips. She suddenly had a horrible premonition – as her granny would have said, a ghost walked over your grave – and Patrick’s reaction confirmed it. Although he was facing away from them out towards the dark garden, she saw the reflection of his face in the window and for a second, it crumpled like a child’s as he listened. Then his shoulders slumped and Carmella thought he was going to fall. She leapt to her feet.

‘What is it?’ Her voice came out in a croak of alarm and everyone fell silent.

‘Right. Thanks for letting me know,’ he said faintly into the phone, clearly dazed. His hand dropped down by his side and when he turned back to the room, his face was chalky white.

‘Oh God,’ Suzanne said. ‘Don’t tell me there’s another dead girl?’

Patrick couldn’t speak. Carmella had never seen him looking so shocked. ‘Pat?’

He sank down onto the sofa as though his legs couldn’t hold him. Gill rushed over to sit by him, sliding a protective arm around his waist, but he then immediately stood up again and Gill looked crushed.

‘We have to go,’ he said to Suzanne and Carmella.

‘Patrick, tell me now,’ Suzanne barked, making a move towards him as though she wanted to shake him. Carmella was already on her feet, dreading his next words.

When they came, they were far worse than she could have imagined.