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When she wakes, freezing, the window is still open and the bottle of whisky half-empty on the nightstand, but the seal on the vial of morphine is unbroken.

There is a voicemail on her phone from Mr Becker. ‘I need to talk to you. I’d rather do it in person than on the phone. Would it be OK if I came up this week?’

Grace goes online, she looks at the weather forecast, she checks the tide timetable.

Next weekend is best , she writes back to him. Storm due to hit the following week. Saturday – any time after 10.30am. Low tide is 1.30.

She gets up and closes the window and crawls back into Vanessa’s bed. She falls asleep quickly, picturing Becker and Nick Riley and Vanessa and her – all of them here, inside this house, while outside the sky empties itself into the sea. A fire in the wood burner and food on the table and all of them together, safe from the storm.