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‘ S o what will you do now you’ve moved here Miss Henderson?’ Mrs McPherson probed. Her piercing eyes had not once left Rose’s face throughout the whole visit.

‘Well…’ Rose started. She was still alert for Simon, listening for signs that he had woken.

‘I’m his P.A. as well as his sister. The housework is shared.’ Rose gritted her teeth.

Mrs McPherson’s eyes drifted round the room. ‘Miss Henderson…’

‘Do call me Rose.’

Mrs McPherson made no response. She appeared to be barely in her sixties and nowadays it was unusual for people even twenty years older, to be so formal.

But Mrs McPherson didn’t seem to have received the memo.

Perhaps it was different so far from the city, along with turning up out-of-the blue to visit, and inviting yourself in for coffee and stepping over the threshold before the hostess could think of a way to stop you.

No. Surely that sort of thing was rude anywhere.

A muffled thump sounded from along the hall and Rose jumped in her chair. She strained her ears. Nothing further. She tried to sit as if relaxed.

‘Will Mr Henderson be joining us?’ queried Mrs McPherson, briefly scanning the plate of supermarket biscuits on the coffee table. She appeared to be torn between peckishness, revulsion and disapproval. ‘You’re not very domestic then?’ she added as an aside.

‘No.’

Rose winced as Mrs McPherson’s gaze scrutinised the sitting room.

She had made the mistake of sitting her visitor facing the patio doors through which a sudden unexpected ray of July sunlight appeared to show up the handprints of everyone who had ever been in the bungalow before she and Simon had moved in a week before.

Cobwebs dangling from the ceiling spiralled and danced.

Dust dulled every surface. She attempted to change the subject.

‘Simon would be out to say hello, even though he’s editing his latest book.’ There was another muffled thump, then silence. ‘But just now he’s suffering from a terrible migraine.’

‘It seems a shame that you expect a busy man to help around the home,’ said Mrs McPherson. ‘Once decent women felt proud to keep a house spotless.’ Her gaze settled on a wonky smiley face smeared on the patio doors. ‘I suppose Mr Henderson can claim you against tax. For something.’

Rose gritted her teeth, her head half turned to the hall door, beyond which she visualised Simon’s locked room in the shadows on the left.

Mrs McPherson frowned at a wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. In it Rose was warding off a rain of confetti thrown by Simon, her other arm linked with David’s.

‘Divorced I assume,’ Mrs McPherson concluded. ‘Since you are registered here as Miss Henderson.’

‘Widowed,’ snapped Rose.

‘And eh, how did that occur?’ her guest prodded.

Really , thought Rose. What more could the old bat want to know? Why doesn’t she just ask for a life story? Her anger took over from caution. ‘He was shot.’

‘How tragic, dear. As you can imagine, shooting accidents happen a great deal around here – hunters, isolated homes…’ Mrs McPherson paused then continued. ‘So why the maiden name?’

Rose snapped ‘I never gave it up and it’s Ms not Miss.’

‘How very modern.’ Mrs McPherson picked up a rich tea biscuit and inspected it before taking a delicate nibble.

Silence returned. Rose felt she had lost some unspecified battle.

‘We have access to the internet you know.’ Mrs McPherson put her mug down.

Statement, warning, threat? If that was true, why all the questions?

‘Of course, I am here primarily to invite you to join the Guild, Miss Henderson. You would find it interesting. You’ll be finding yourself lonely out here; and there are plenty of women your age.

I am sure you might like to learn some crafts or eh,’ - her eyes dropped to the coffee table - ‘recipes. We also have visiting speakers. This is the secondary reason I came. Mr Henderson would be ideal to …’ she stopped and her eyes focussed through the patio doors.

She blinked, slightly rising from her chair.

Rose whirled round. ‘What did you see?’

‘I thought I saw…’ Mrs McPherson frowned.

‘Do you have a dog, Miss Henderson? I thought I saw a dog. Only perhaps you didn’t know about the resettlement project.

It’s not been popular, and you’re very close to the forest here.

’ She sat back. An increased and agitated thumping from the hallway made Rose stand up.

‘I need to check on Simon. What is the resettlement project? Are the dogs particularly vicious?’

‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs McPherson, as if she were the hostess and Rose the guest. ‘I’m sure it was just the sun catching some of the grime on the glass.’

The silence became unbearable. Rose could think of no way to send Mrs McPherson on her way. Her fingers itched.

Mrs McPherson had munched down the biscuits despite her disdain and her gaze had returned to the wedding photograph.

‘Of course,’ she said, crumbs on her bottom lip, ‘I remember now. Mr Henderson’s cameraman was his brother-in-law. Your husband presumably.’

‘Yes,’ Rose replied.

‘It was tragic wasn’t it?’ Mrs McPherson continued with relish, apparently forgetting she had feigned ignorance before. ‘Of course, I don’t suppose all the details were published at the time…’

She leaned forward, expectant.

My God , thought Rose. Is she a reporter? A whole year has passed. She decided to take control and stood up.

‘Well Mrs McPherson, it was lovely to meet you. I’ve got your details and Simon will be in touch when he’s better. You know what migraines are, he’ll be washed out tomorrow, but I’m sure he’ll be able to email you.’

Withdrawing slightly, Mrs McPherson also stood, her lips tightened slightly with the last few crumbs still clinging. Suddenly conscious of them, her pale pink tongue poking out briefly and viciously. She attempted to look coy.

‘Well, as you know, it’s a way from Kirkglen, and I wonder if it would be all right to use the eh, to powder my nose, well…’

Really, is anyone that prim anymore? thought Rose, as she made to escort her.

‘Och no, I’ll find my way,’ Mrs McPherson simpered. ‘These bungalows are all much of a muchness aren’t they? ’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Rose. ‘I’d best show you so that you don’t disturb my brother by accident.’

They tussled for control down the hallway, Rose keeping to the other woman’s left to avoid her ‘accidentally’ opening Simon’s door.

Even though the bathroom, directly ahead, was labelled ‘Bathroom’ with a twee picture of a pig showering, Mrs McPherson made to push open Rose’s bedroom door, which was ajar.

‘No, no - ahead of you.’ Rose hoped she sounded neutral.

‘Och yes of course!’ exclaimed Mrs McPherson with gritted teeth. ‘What a sweet picture on the door.’

Good grief , thought Rose. Does she really think so?

She watched until Mrs McPherson had bolted herself in with the avocado suite.

Then she gently tested Simon’s door - still locked - and then turned to her own.

A slight draught was coming from it and the door was poised to bang.

Yet hadn’t she shut it earlier? Hadn’t she shut the window too?

Keeping one foot in the hallway, she gently pushed open the door.

The room was quite tidy and her cello was propped up in the corner.

It was all as she’d expected, except for two things.

The window had been forced from outside and there was a strange woman standing at the foot of her bed. Not only strange but also naked.