Waking up in The Windsor Castle, Jenny didn’t at first realise where she was. Then everything came swimming back to her, and her heart began to pound painfully. She reached for her phone. Nothing. No calls. No texts.

What could this mean? If it meant anything, could it be good? After a few minutes of panic, she forced herself into the shower, then forced herself out into the drizzling cold of the morning to the one and only cafe already open on the seafront. It was called Kirsty’s Baps, and Jenny thought instantly of Freddie, how funny he’d find that, and he’d laugh his honking laugh, pause, take a photo and put it on Twitter. But thinking about Freddie was simply too painful at the moment. Don’t do that. Work your way up to that.

The cafe had one other customer: a malodorous man in a trench coat. His hands, palsied, shook, and his tea dripped onto the Formica tabletop. When the waitress – one of those creamy-skinned adolescents with starfish mascara and a faintly insolent smile – drifted over, Jenny ordered tea and toast and changed seat so she could look out of the window at the sea over the railing, merging sinuously with the grey horizon. She’d never been here in winter before. Summers. Summers with Mum – the first week of August staying at The Windsor Castle, bacon sandwiches in the morning in the quiet dining room. Lights out at ten and the creaky floorboards and the sound of the waves.

God she was tired. So tired. Even though she’d slept she hadn’t rested, and everything she thought was fixed… wasn’t. If David had been arrested, surely she’d know by now? If he hadn’t been arrested, why hadn’t he called her? She’d come to Scarborough to escape for a day or two, but now it felt more like she was imprisoned here, in a foggy vacuum, cut off from the world, powerless. God, what a mess. More than a mess. There wasn’t a word for what this was.

If only she’d handled things better, been more careful around David, never introduced him to Freddie, or maybe introduced him earlier? All those times she resisted meeting up with David by using Freddie as an excuse… ‘Freddie’s a bit jealous.’ ‘Freddie’s a bit sensitive.’ ‘Sorry, I’m out with Freddie… yes, I promise you’ll meet each other. When the time’s right. He’s so protective of me…’ All because of her long-cherished strategy of keeping friends separate, having her cake and eating it. Then she messed it all up by clumsily unveiling David at the funeral as The Stranger Who Gave Me an Alibi, and she hadn’t properly prepared the ground either. Of course Freddie would ask about David’s past, about school, of course he’d think it was strange they’d never met before.…. She’d tried- clumsily- to get them off the topic of school by talking about the cat limping, but that hadn’t worked. For god’s sake, why hadn’t she been more careful? Coached David a bit more? Prepared him? Here’s what we say when he asks about school... here’s what we say when he asks about That Night... If she’d only bothered to do that, David wouldn’t have opened with that stupid hole-in-the-heart-doing-GCSE’s-and-A-Levels-at-Hazlewood story. Freddie wouldn’t have even heard the name Hazlewood, and he wouldn’t have had any suspicions to go on, and none of this would’ve happened. Stupid. Even then, though, it might still have worked if she’d just done everything more gradually, casually… after-work drinks with Freddie, David, want to come along? Fred, the Alibi Man just texted me – Rose and Crown? If she’d just done that…

Then Freddie wanted to arrange the dinner party, and it was such a big deal, and David was nervous, and when David got nervous he could be… odd. Even though they’d had many conversations about it, he was strange about psychiatry in front of Freddie… he hinted about that picture of her… made a fuss about childhood photos, had basically been a poster child for Asperger’s. The whole evening was a slow-motion car wreck, and she could tell, from the tone of Freddie’s text, that David had freaked him out on the drive home too. It all mushroomed from there.

If it wasn’t for that night, Freddie wouldn’t have started digging around and David wouldn’t have gone nuts about him digging around. If only she’d handled it better from the start, Freddie might not have noticed how strange David was on the night she’d deliberately double booked them- he might have overlooked the suits, the shoes, the hairdresser… he might have thought it was cute rather than controlling… Then none of this would have happened, Freddie would still be alive and… There. That did it. She let herself sob. Freddie was dead. The shock had worn off, leaving brutal grief and now her voice would be the right kind of broken when she made the call to Graham and Ruth.

She’d tell them as much about David as they needed to know.

They’d tell her that David had been arrested.

They’d sob together. And then she could go back home. Grieve with them. She didn’t have anyone else now, did she?

She headed to the beach, to make the call as privately as possible. Someone answered almost immediately, but it was an unfamiliar voice and her tears turned traitor and dried in her throat.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Who’s this?’ Jenny managed.

‘Jane Westergaard. I’m a friend of the family,’

Jane. She was a barrister. Jenny had met her once or twice. A tall, tweedy lesbian with no discernible sense of humour. She had a way of resting her grey, pebbly eyes on someone, and gradually widening them, until her face assumed an expression of baffled intrigue. She was Freddie’s godmother. Well, not any more.

‘My name’s Jenny? Freddie’s friend Jenny? Can I speak to Graham or Ruth?’

‘It’s not a good time,’ Jane told her drily.

‘I just wanted to call… to see how they both were; I know what’s happened,’ Jenny said lamely.

‘They’re not doing well, obviously,’ Jane told her. A pause gathered. The cold wind carried the senseless yapping of a dog – and the equally senseless bellowing of its owner. ‘Where are you?’ Jane asked.

‘I’m… I had to get away. Look, maybe you can help me. My boyfriend—’

‘David?’

Jenny stopped. ‘How d’you know David?’

‘He’s just left the house.’

Jenny stopped still then. Her body flushed with, sudden, scalding heat. ‘What was he doing there?’

She heard a squeak – the sound of wicker under Jane’s weight – she must be sitting on the log box in the kitchen. ‘He came to see Ruth and Graham. Pay his respects.’ There was blithe condemnation in her voice.

‘Look, Jane? There’s something about David. Perhaps you’re the right person to talk to about this, I don’t know. David is—,’ Jane’s voice was muffled. She was answering someone. There was a rustle and Graham was on the line.

‘Jenny? Where are you?’

‘Look, I need to tell you something about David—’

‘Come home.’ Graham sounded heartbroken. ‘David’s worried sick. We all are—’

‘What d’you mean? Graham—’

‘He told us that you ran away from him at the hospital; he told us about the problems you’ve been having.’

‘What?’

‘It’s to be expected, what with your mother dying, and now… with Freddie.’ He stopped then, but his breath still whispered like a much older man.

‘What’s he been saying about me?’

‘That you struggle with stress. That you can become a little detached from reality. Look, Jenny, I really can’t—’ Graham’s voice fractured.

‘He killed Freddie!’ Jenny shouted. ‘I know he did! I even went to the police—’

‘Yes, we know you did, David told us.’ Graham’s voice hardened just a little. ‘And you ran away from there too.’ He sighed. ‘Jenny, come back. You’re not well. At least call David, plea—’

She hung up then.

David was worried sick. Kind, dependable David. Doggedly loyal David who still loved her despite her mental problems. He was good. He must have sailed through the police interview, if it even got that far. Now he would be trying to find her. And he was very good at finding her – he’d done it many times, after all.