The kitchen was clean when Lottie arrived home shortly after seven.

Sean sauntered in.

‘You okay, Ma?’ he asked. In a rare moment of tenderness, he wrapped his arms around her.

‘Work pressure,’ Lottie said, hugging her son.

‘Chloe was like a bitch all day,’ he said.

‘Don’t mind her,’ she said. ‘I’ve to talk to her.’

‘Are you ever going to cook again? Like you used to.’

‘What do you mean?’ Where was her son heading with this conversation?

‘You know. Proper food. Like when Dad was alive.’

Lottie’s chest constricted. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I loved those dinners. Actually I’m fucking starving now.’

‘Don’t use that language in this house.’

‘You use it,’ Sean said, withdrawing from his mother.

‘I know I do, but I shouldn’t and neither should you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’

‘I mean, I’m sorry for mentioning Dad.’

‘Oh, Sean, don’t ever be sorry for talking about your dad.’ Lottie felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. ‘We should talk about him more often.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I get it hard sometimes so I try to block out the past.’

‘I know. But I think about him every day.’

‘That’s a good thing.’

‘And I miss him.’

There were tears in her son’s eyes. Lottie gave him a tight squeeze and kissed his forehead. He didn’t pull away.

‘You’re just like him,’ she whispered into his hair.

‘Am I?’

She held him at arm’s length. ‘The fecking image of him.’

‘Now look who’s swearing.’

Both of them laughed.

‘Okay. I’ll cook something,’ she said, regretting her impetuous ditching of the food her mother had cooked that morning.

‘Yes!’ Sean said, giving her a high five.

Lottie laughed again. He could twist her round his little finger. Just like Adam.

‘Where’s Katie?’ she asked. ‘She can give me a hand, now that Chloe’s in a sulk.’

‘In the sitting room. With her boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’

Sean escaped without answer, clambering upstairs to his PlayStation world.

Lottie headed to the sitting room. The door was firmly shut. She listened. No sound. Opened the door. Darkness. She flicked on the light.

Katie’s voice roared, ‘I warned you, Sean. Get out.’

‘Katie Parker!’

‘Oh, it’s you Mam,’ Katie said, untangling herself from the arms of a boy.

Lottie recognised the pungent scent in the air.

‘Are you smoking weed?’

‘Don’t be such a prude, Mam.’

‘Not in my house you won’t.’

Lottie couldn’t believe it. What was her daughter up to?

‘And who is this? Are you going to introduce me?’ She folded her arms so tight she hurt her damaged ribs.

‘This is Jason,’ Katie said, pulling her sweater down over her jeans. She sat up straight on the couch, wrapping her hair in a knot at her slender neck. The boy loped to a stand, his legs unsteady, Calvin Klein boxers showing at the waist of his frayed jeans. He held out his hand.

‘Hello, Mrs Parker.’

He was as tall as Katie, hair to his shoulders and a black Nirvana T-shirt stretched tight over a muscled chest. A wooden stud pierced one ear and he had the general air of being unkempt.

‘Katie, I need your help in the kitchen.’ Lottie left the room without waiting for an objection. How was she going to handle this? Carefully, she warned herself. Very carefully.

Katie walked into the kitchen with a lazy, stoned walk.

‘I don’t want a lecture,’ she said.

‘You’re old enough to know what that stuff can do to you. And, it is illegal. I could arrest you.’

Katie giggled, her dilated pupils swathed in a glaze.

‘Who is he anyway?’ Lottie asked, throwing potatoes into the sink under running water. The hint of vodka wafted up from the drain. She began peeling furiously.

‘Jason.’

‘I got that bit. Jason who?’

‘You wouldn’t know him.’

‘Who are his parents? Maybe I know them.’

‘You wouldn’t know them either,’ Katie said, stifling a yawn.

‘Where did you get the drugs?’ Lottie asked, dropping the potatoes into the pot with a splash.

‘It’s only a bit of weed.’

Lottie turned.

‘Weed is a drug. It’ll shrink your brain to the size of a pea. You’ll end up in a psychiatric hospital banging your head off the wall. I’m telling you here and now, missy, you better get rid of it. And quick.’

‘It’s not mine. It’s Jason’s. I can’t get rid of it.’

‘Get rid of him, then,’ Lottie said, knowing she was talking irrationally.

‘He’s my friend.’

Katie’s hair fell across her eyes. Her father’s eyes. All her children had his eyes. Memories of Adam had haunted Lottie all day.

‘I’m concerned about you,’ Lottie said.

‘There’s no need, Mam. I’m fine. Most of my friends smoke a bit. I’m not stupid.’

Sensing her daughter’s fatigued state, Lottie decided it was not the right time to have this conversation. When would there ever be a right time? But tackling the source of this weed was definitely going on her to-do list.

‘Here, chop these,’ she said, taking three peppers from the cupboard.

‘What are you cooking?’

‘I haven’t a clue,’ Lottie said.

Katie left with Jason. Before the food was cooked.

‘We had dinner already,’ Katie said.

Lottie said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

The door slammed without further discussion. Lottie sprayed air freshener throughout the sitting room, to mask the weedy scent, thinking about how quickly she was losing control of her children. One thing was sure, she would now have to monitor Katie and her friends more closely. The thought filled her with exhaustion.

She craved sleep but because of last night she was afraid to go to bed. After pouring a glass of water she sank into her kitchen armchair with her legs curled beneath her. She switched on her iPad, logged into Facebook. It had been weeks since she’d checked it.

‘Holy Jesus,’ she muttered when her news feed burst into life. One hundred and fourteen notifications. Probably all ‘Happy Christmas’ and ‘Happy New Year’ shit. She hadn’t fourteen real friends, let alone over a hundred. There was one personal mail and one friend request red flag. She tapped the friend request first.

‘What the . . .?’ Lottie blinked, put her glass on the floor, kicked out her long legs and sat up straight. Susan Sullivan. The name, no photograph. Why had Susan Sullivan sent her a friend request? She glanced at the date of the request. December fifteenth. Was it even the murdered woman?

She didn’t know Susan Sullivan, had never heard of her before the murder, but Susan had met with her mother. Had Rose mentioned her? Probably. But why didn’t the woman contact her at the station?

She tapped ‘friend accept’ and accessed the woman’s account. Still active.

There was nothing on the page, just like their profile of the murdered woman. She’d joined Facebook on December first. Lottie tapped in, wondering what friends Susan had.

None.

No status updates, no likes or shares either. What had possessed her to set it up? Lottie picked up her glass and sipped the water slowly, craving a shot of vodka. Maybe she could sniff the sink.

She tapped her private messages. Susan Sullivan. Again. She read the short missive from the dead woman.

That was it.

After staring at the iPad for a few minutes, Lottie reached for her phone and called Boyd.

‘I got a message from Susan Sullivan,’ she said.

‘Are you drunk?’

‘I’m stone cold sober.’

‘The dead don’t speak.’

‘Believe me, Boyd, this one did.’

‘You are definitely drunk,’ he said.

‘Just come over. Now. I assure you I am sober.’