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Patrick walked straight past their table to the far side of the garden, barely glancing at them as he went by. He settled at a trestle table in the corner, in the shade of a large oak tree. A wasp must have made a beeline for his Guinness – a wasp making a beeline , Fiona would have to remember that one – because he made a swatting motion before settling down to drink his pint and read a book.

Trying to sound like Maisie, Fiona said, ‘We’ll give it a few minutes before we start, okay? My English accent? Is it convincing?’

‘Yeah. I think so. You sound a bit posh, though.’

‘Do I?’ That wasn’t good. It wouldn’t fit with her cover story.

‘How about this?’ She toned it down, thinking about a woman from Essex she’d shared a cell with for a few months, before she was moved to Franklin Grange.

‘Much better. You sound normal now.’

‘Normal is good. Now listen, let me quickly run through the plan again.’

She spoke quietly, confident her words wouldn’t drift through the still air to Patrick, who appeared to be engrossed in the book he was reading.

‘Okay,’ Fiona said when she’d finished. ‘Let’s play.’

She opened the box and took out the chess set, laying out the pieces. Out of the corner of her eye Fiona saw Patrick look up, his attention snagged immediately, like he had some kind of radar for his favourite game.

Without looking over at him, Fiona and Rose started playing. Fiona had instructed Rose to pretend Patrick wasn’t there and play as she would at home. If she had been worried the girl might be distracted, those worries were quickly laid to rest. Rose, with the black pieces, played her favourite response to Fiona’s e4 opening: the Sicilian Defence. The two of them quickly followed the classic sequence of moves, exchanging pawns in the centre, before the game began to get interesting. Like Rose, Fiona found herself getting drawn into it, especially when Rose surprised her by bringing out her queen early, exposing the piece and allowing Fiona to capture it.

‘Oh dear,’ said a voice from behind Rose.

She looked up. It was Patrick. She hadn’t noticed him cross the pub garden to watch them.

‘I blundered,’ said Rose.

‘Want to quit and start again?’ Fiona said, using her English accent.

‘Uh-uh. Let me play on.’

‘Do you mind if I watch?’ Patrick asked with a smile, which Fiona returned.

‘Yeah, no problem.’

He stood at the side of the table.

‘You can take a pew if you want,’ Fiona said. That was an English expression she’d never used in her life. She admonished herself: Take it easy, Fiona. Don’t overdo it.

‘I’m fine standing here,’ Patrick said. ‘Gives me a better view.’

Rose gave Patrick a little smile then focused her attention on the board. Over the next fifteen minutes she fought hard but, without her queen, she stood little chance, and soon Fiona said, ‘Checkmate. Rematch?’

They played again. This time Rose had the white pieces and it was a long, gruelling battle, trading the most valuable pieces until both players were racing to get their final pawns across the board. Rose won, punching the air as she trapped Fiona’s king in the corner.

‘You’re quite good,’ said Patrick. ‘Although I have to tell you that you missed several chances to win a while ago. May I?’

He leaned over and, from memory, set a number of pieces back on the board, just as they’d been ten minutes before. He showed Rose a couple of moves she could have made that would have led to a swifter victory.

‘I only know that because of experience, though,’ he said. ‘I certainly wasn’t as good as you when I was your age.’ He stuck out his hand to Fiona. ‘I’m Patrick.’

She met his handshake. ‘Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Bianca and this is Florence.’ They had agreed these names before he arrived.

‘That’s a good old-fashioned name,’ he said. ‘My mother was called Florence.’

‘No way!’ As if she hadn’t read it in his book.

He chuckled. ‘Yes way. Isn’t that what you young people say these days?’

‘Something like that, Patrick. Fancy giving Florence a game? She’s just going to keep beating me now, and it gets depressing.’

He hesitated, but only for a second. ‘I can never resist a game. But go easy on me, Florence.’

Fiona shuffled along and Patrick sat down. They began to play, Rose white, him black. Fiona was impressed to see Rose use the Ponziani Opening, creating tension with the pawns in the centre of the board. Patrick looked impressed too, and in the early stages Fiona thought that all his boasting in his memoir had merely been that: boasting. But then his experience began to show as he lured Rose into a trap and quickly took control, winning the game as if he had a computer in his head telling him the best moves.

‘Again,’ Rose said. ‘Is that okay, Mum?’

She met Fiona’s eye and Fiona felt a little thrill run through her. Mum . It felt strange but rather wonderful. Not because she had any maternal instincts, but because it meant Rose was going along with her plan and, Fiona was sure, would continue to do so. In that moment, Fiona could see the future unfolding before her: a future that went beyond her modest three-part revenge scheme. A future where she and Rose were together – unstoppable, unbeatable. Because who would ever believe this lovely mother and daughter could be responsible for all the things Fiona’s black heart craved?

As they started their second game, Patrick said to Fiona, ‘Did you teach her to play? It’s wonderful to see so many young people getting into the game these days. Are you a member of a club, Florence?’

Fiona was worried Rose might temporarily forget her fake name, but she was too good. She said, ‘I was in my school club, but they’re all rubbish.’

The game continued and Fiona chatted with Patrick, spinning him a story about how she was a single mother and how hard it was with childcare in the school holidays, especially as Florence’s dad was so useless. He seemed to be taking it in, even if he also didn’t appear particularly interested. She told him how she wished she could afford to hire a chess coach for ‘Florence’ or even afford to buy some good books.

He defeated Rose again, then went back through the game pointing out what she should have done differently. He had a superior tone, quite patronising, which Fiona knew Rose would find annoying.

‘Well, it was lovely to meet you, Pat, but me and Flo had better make a move. I want to actually see the village before we go home. But before we do, could you recommend some books? I could maybe have a look for them in the library.’

‘You know, I have a couple of books I could let you have. A little gift as a thank you for entertaining me for an hour.’

‘Oh, we couldn’t.’

‘Honestly, I’d be very happy to give them to you. I’m never going to need them again, and I’d like them to go to a good home. I only live down the road. If you don’t mind accompanying me, I can fetch them for you.’

‘What do you think, Florence?’

‘That would be awesome,’ Rose replied.

‘Marvellous.’ Patrick rubbed his hands together – big, meaty hands that had spent many years pounding away at a typewriter. He was so sure of himself, so confident of his own brilliance. Not at all concerned about inviting strangers back to his house.

Fiona and Rose followed him across the garden to the pub’s side gate. On the way, Fiona checked over her shoulder to see if there were any witnesses. But there was still no one else around. The pub’s few customers would be huddled inside the bar.

They walked a little way down the road and then Patrick led them down a small lane, just wide enough for a single car. There was horse shit on the road and tall hedgerows on either side.

This was perfect. The almost-deserted pub. The quiet lane. Patrick’s interest in their game and his suggestion that they take his books. It was as if fate were smiling on her. And she didn’t believe in God or anything supernatural, but she could imagine Maisie walking beside her, whispering in her ear: The world belongs to us, Fi. It bends to our will.

Every now and then, it actually felt like that. Soon, it would be her and Rose, and it would be even better than it had been with Maisie. In that relationship, Maisie had always been the top dog, the more experienced one. This time Fiona would be the boss.

It started today. After this, if all went as she expected it to, Fiona would confess to Rose that Max hadn’t been an accident. She would tell Rose everything.

And if it didn’t go as expected? If Rose didn’t react how Fiona thought she would?

Well, that would be unfortunate for everyone.

‘I’ve written a book myself,’ Patrick said as they continued to walk down the lane. ‘Perhaps you’d like a copy of that too, Florence?’

‘No thank you.’

He guffawed, then said, ‘Down this way.’

The lane forked and he led them to the right, down an even narrower path which suddenly opened up to reveal a large stone house, set back behind a wrought-iron gate. They followed him through the gate into a front garden that was almost too cute to bear: the scent of apple trees and roses, a neat little lawn, chocolate-box perfection.

‘Come in,’ he said, opening the front door and gesturing for them to follow.

Fiona shut the door behind her.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ Patrick asked when they were standing in the hallway. Despite the season and the warm weather, it was cold in here. It was the kind of space the sunshine never touched.

‘Tea would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’

They all went into the kitchen and he filled the kettle, flicking it on.

‘Now, my chess books are stored in the cellar. If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll go and find a couple. A copy of my book too, just in case you think it might be interesting.’

He was panting a little from the effort of walking home, the first physical sign he’d shown of his age. He left the kitchen.

Rose immediately whispered, ‘What are we going to do? How are we going to get the artwork?’

Fiona went to the kitchen doorway and peeked out. ‘Wait here.’

She wanted to take a quick look around, double-check Patrick lived on his own and didn’t have a lodger or a live-in housekeeper. Then she would find Patrick and reveal her true identity. She couldn’t wait to see the terror in his eyes as he realised he was all alone with someone who wanted to kill him. And it was going to be so easy to make it look like a domestic accident. This poor vulnerable old man, falling down the stairs. Such a shame.

Tingling with anticipation, she went into the hallway and tiptoed past the open cellar door, glancing down into the dark.

Hold on. Why was it dark if he was down there?

‘Looking for someone, Bianca?’

She whirled around.

Patrick was standing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the first floor. He was holding a gun.

‘Except it’s not Bianca, is it? It’s Fiona.’

The gun – a black revolver, quite old-looking – was pointed straight at her chest. Fiona stood with her back to the cellar steps, hands held aloft. Patrick moved left so he was directly in front of her in the hall, with his back to the kitchen door. He must have lied about going into the cellar. Instead, he had crept upstairs, which was presumably where he kept his gun.

‘Did you really think I wouldn’t recognise you? Even with the new hair colour, the fake accent, I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve watched all the news reports, Fiona. Looked into those eyes of yours a hundred times. And do you know why?’

He was breathing heavily now. But the hand that held the gun was stable. Not shaking.

‘I was trying to see if there was any humanity in there. After what you tried to do to Dinah. I wanted to know if you felt any remorse.’

She didn’t know what to say. Theoretically, she knew what remorse meant. But the closest she’d ever got was self-pity. Regret for ways the world had screwed her over.

‘I knew you were out of prison,’ he went on. ‘Though I’m not sure if you can even call that place a prison. Franklin Grange.’ He spat the words. ‘More like a holiday camp. I bet you had a grand old time, didn’t you?’

‘Patrick,’ Fiona said, dropping the accent. ‘I came to apologise.’

‘What rot! You’ve come here for revenge. You know, I saw the report about your lawyer dying.’

Shit. He really had followed the case in detail.

‘I bet that was you too. Are you working your way down a list, eh?’ His lip curled. ‘I hope I’m only number two and that you didn’t manage to bump anyone else off before you came up against a proper adversary.’ He moved away from the main staircase, the gun still aimed at her heart. The kitchen was to her right, the front door to her left. ‘Because that’s what you and that other little bitch specialised in, isn’t it? Picking on people weaker than you.’

Most people would be going into flight, fight or freeze mode now. Heart rate soaring, cortisol and adrenaline pumping. But Fiona barely felt anything. Annoyance at herself for being arrogant. Surprised respect for Patrick – well, a little, anyway. And, of course, she didn’t want to be caught or punished. But she was calm. Calculating. Cool.

‘Why don’t you put the gun down, Patrick?’

‘Shut up! Who’s the girl, eh? She’s not really your daughter, is she?’

He took another step closer. She was trapped in the doorway to the cellar.

‘I want you to go down those steps,’ he said.

‘Into the cellar? What are you going to do?’ Fiona asked. ‘Keep me prisoner? Use me as a sex slave?’

He made a disgusted noise. ‘I’m going to call the police, you bloody sicko.’

So he hadn’t called them yet. That was encouraging. All she had to do was get the gun – but the moment she moved towards him he would probably pull the trigger.

‘Come on, Patrick. Can’t we talk? I could make you happy.’

‘You’re revolting. You’re not even properly human.’

He took another couple of steps towards her. They were only a metre apart now. She could almost hear his heart thudding in his chest.

Where was Rose? Was she completely unaware of what was going on out here?

‘This is your last warning,’ he said. ‘I will take great pleasure in shooting you. Get down those steps now. I’m counting to three. One—’

‘Fine.’

Her mind raced, trying to figure out how she was going to get out of this. She couldn’t accept that a man like Patrick could beat her. This was a temporary glitch, that was all. But right now she had no choice but to obey him. She began to walk very slowly down the steps, looking back over her shoulder at him, at his silhouette as it appeared in the cellar doorway, preparing to shut the door, to lock it.

And then a blur of noise and motion behind him.

A little later she would realise that Rose – who had been listening to everything – had come charging out of the kitchen at full speed. And as Patrick stood at the top of the steep cellar steps, his back to Rose, looking down towards Fiona, she charged into him, arms outstretched. Shoving him with as much force as her small body could muster.

But it was enough. He flew down the stairs, arms windmilling. He reached out in desperation, trying to grab on to Fiona on his way down, but she flattened herself against the wall, his fingers brushing her chest, and he was past her in a second. He cried out once as he fell, and then there was a crack as he hit the concrete floor below.

The sound of his neck breaking.