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OK. Um, thanks.’
    Tamzin grinned as her father, scowling at being humoured so obviously, trailed Diane up the concrete path to what probably used to be a council house. The front garden was long and the shrubs they brushed past were silvery with dew and spider webs. Something squelched under Tamzin’s shoe. ‘Gross,’ she muttered.
    Diane led them to a side door that opened into the kitchen. In the light of a bulb shaded by taut white cotton, they all blinked. ‘As you can see,’ observed Diane, gravely, ‘quite safe. It’s very good of you to worry, of course.’
    ‘Right.’ James turned for the door.
    But Tamzin couldn’t stop gazing at her surroundings. This kitchen was out of a museum! White Formica worktop, chipped and scarred, white tiles, greying grout, a freestanding electric cooker crouched on quarry tiles, more Formica on the units on the wall. It would have been straight out of the 1970s, except for the fresh pink emulsion with a stencilled grapevine arcing above the washing machine.
    Well old! And tiny compared to their house, with the gables of six bedrooms studding the red-tiled roof and four cars parked in the garage at the end of the drive.
    Her mouth was quicker to react than her sluggish brain. ‘Whoa! Does Uncle Gareth live here ?’
    Diane halted, that disconcerting gaze homing in on Tamzin in a way that made Tamzin want to suck the words back out of the air. Seconds passed in silence. Without removing her gaze, Diane reached down thick, yellow mugs from behind a glass sliding door of a wall cupboard. Her voice had taken on a note of steel. ‘I can’t let you go without something to keep you awake on the drive home.’ She filled the kettle, plugged it in, and scraped out two kitchen chairs. ‘Please – sit.’
    ‘We ought to get going.’ James turned for the door.
    ‘A cup of tea first,’ Diane contradicted firmly. ‘And a chat. That would be ... helpful. Please.’
    Tamzin watched her father hesitate, pinned by blue eyes. There was something about Diane, something good and valiant. And difficult to resist. Tamzin suspected that if Diane didn’t get what she wanted now, she’d lie in wait for them at the hospital. She sighed aloud and dropped into a chair. Slowly, her father joined her, frowning like a goblin.
    Diane made tea in a pot, with tea leaves and a strainer.
    Then she folded her arms on the kitchen table, pushing aside a bundle of blue fabric, a tattered blue pincushion and a pot of sequins. ‘Why are you so astonished that we live in this house, Tamzin?’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘It’s modest but it’s a perfectly respectable house, bought and paid for.’
    Picking up the yellow mug, although the tea was hot, Tamzin protested, feebly. ‘I’m not astonished.’
    Diane’s voice softened as she poured her own tea, brewed Guinness-dark. ‘Tamzin, I’ve had a bad day.’
    ‘Tamzin’s very tired,’ James cut in, in his in charge voice.
    Diane twinkled at Tamzin. ‘Are you too tired to answer, Tamz?’
    Tamzin sighed and dropped her gaze to Diane’s top. It reminded her of a clear sea on a summer day, the glitter of the sun on embroidered waves suggested by a spangling of golden beads and – now she looked more closely – fleets of tiny silver buckles. Cool.
    She ventured. ‘I suppose I thought Uncle Gareth would live somewhere different.’
    ‘Different? Bigger, smaller, prettier, uglier, upmarket, downmarket?’
    ‘Upmarket,’ Tamzin selected miserably, unwillingly, aware that she was toiling deeper into hideous poo and wishing James had been content to drop Diane at her gate.
    ‘Upmarket.’ Diane mused. Her hair caught the light as she nodded. Tamzin fixed her gaze on it. Such a strange colour; properly pale blonde. Moonlight. Star shine. Pearl. Unexpectedly beautiful. ‘Why would you expect Gareth to own a house that was “upmarket”?’
    James tried again with the authoritative voice. ‘This isn’t our business.’
    ‘That’s a get