St John’s House is a charming old villa at the top of the long, steep incline that ascends from the eastern end of Ryde Esplanade to the leafy residential area known as Appley Rise. Shielded from the road by a high stone wall draped with ivy and overhung with brawny oaks and lofty elms, the three-storey building is open on its northern side to a paved verandah overlooking a spacious lawn that dips towards the cloisters and secluded gardens of the restored St Cecilia’s Abbey, and thus presents the visitor with a spectacular view across the beach to Spithead and the mainland.

None of this can compete with the treasures the interior of the house holds. There is a room filled with silk scrolls, banners and glazed porcelain artefacts from a range of Chinese dynasties. There is a room devoted to figurines, steles, alabaster heads and daggers made of gold and lapis-lazuli from pre-Islamic Mesopotamia. There is a room decorated in the style of a Turkish coffee-house, another could be the setting for a Japanese tea ceremony, yet another is done out in the style of a Hindu temple.

Then there is the bathroom on the first floor, which might have been transported directly from first-century Rome. Looking at the elaborate mosaic floor tiles, the rich tapestries and the salacious frescoes featuring nubile young women entwined in a variety of compromising positions, I’m compelled to ask Cathryn how much this incredible collection cost to put together.

“A lot less than you’d think,” she replies. “Much of it was hidden away in dusty Oxford basements waiting to be catalogued, where it would have remained to this day if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“But some of these antiques must be worth thousands. How did you persuade the people in charge to let you take them?”

She raises a thin, deftly pencilled eyebrow.

“There are ways, darling.”

I incline my head a fraction to show her that no further explanation is necessary. She returns the gesture, acknowledging the fragile accord that appears to be forming between us.

The grand tour over, we return downstairs to the elegantly furnished but thematically neutral lounge. A dark-skinned girl with close-cropped hair, wearing a long red-and-yellow striped dress, takes my jacket and departs with a shy smile.

“Celeste’s such a treasure,” Cathryn enthuses. “We’ve almost come to think of her as one of the family. She’s got beautiful eyes, hasn’t she?”

“Mmm, they’re lovely.”

“They reveal so much about a person, don’t you agree?”

I stiffen at the subtle change in her tone.

“I don’t know whether they say everything…”

“That’s true. Yours aren’t giving me the whole story, not by any means.”

Let the tournament commence.

“I’ve found that’s the wisest course to take,” I say carefully.

“You’re right, sometimes it is. We all have secrets.”

“Yes, we do.”

She folds her arms in front of her.

“You’re a very attractive young woman, Ruth. Kerrie undersold you. But where matters of the heart are concerned her judgement’s faultless. She knows when people are lying to her about them.”

“Is this because I won’t talk about my husband?”

“A few days ago she told you that a boy you went to school with had died. The news upset you far more than it should have done.”

“Oh did it now?” I bristle, hands on hips.

“The people at the hotel said your family moved away from Northcroft when you were twelve. Now I can just about believe that you might have carried a torch for your childhood sweetheart for more than ten years, but not that when your marriage failed and you returned to your home town to put your life back together you’d make no attempt to look him up.”

“I fail to see what business this is of yours.”

“It becomes my business, darling, when someone I love very dearly feels she has to lie to her own children in order to protect them. It becomes my business when that person places her full trust in you, and you’re less than honest with her in return. It becomes my business when in spite of all that she persuades me to welcome you into my home.”

The arrival of Millicent Simmons, leaning on Kerrie’s arm, brings the confrontation to an end — though not, I feel certain, a conclusion. Cathryn’s mother is in her middle seventies, white-haired and disconcertingly frail. The reason for her fragile health is a blood disorder, which requires her to have regular transfusions and in the normal course of events would have seen her entering a nursing home long before now. There’s nothing the matter with her mind, however, as is proved when she makes the observation that I can’t be serious about patching up my marriage or I wouldn’t be wasting precious time here. Fortunately Niamh, clattering through the door in a state of breathless excitement because Celeste has offered to put her hair in dreadlocks, comes to my rescue.

Kerrie suggests that Niamh and I take Millicent out for her morning constitutional, and gives us strict instructions not to venture further than Puckpool Point, half a mile to the east. It’s not quite warm enough outside for bare arms, and rather than trouble Celeste for my jacket Cathryn loans me a cardigan I can wear around my shoulders with just the top button fastened. As the adult I put myself in charge of the wheelchair for the short journey along Appley Road and down Puckpool Hill to the sea front — if Niamh wants a go that badly she can push it all the way back up.

The old lady is fast asleep by the time we reach the entrance to the small park at the bottom of the bank. I place the chair beside an empty bench, light up and watch the hovercraft skim the shimmering water on its way across Spithead to Southsea beach. Northcroft couldn’t be further away if it was in a parallel universe.

“Cathy’s great, isn’t she?” says Niamh.

“She’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“You haven’t got to know her well enough. When you do–“

“I think I know her as well as I’ll ever want to.”

“She says I’m gifted. Not as much as her, of course! No one is.”

“Gifted?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like being good at Maths. It’s more about working out what people are thinking deep down. That’s how I can tell mum isn’t frightened of boats any more. She was worried about something else, probably what she’s going to tell auntie Shannon and auntie Clare when she goes to see them. She’s gifted too, she just hasn’t learned to use it properly. Not sure about you, though. Strange one, you are.”

You don’t know the half of it, angel.

She rambles on for some time, but I’m not really listening. All I can hear is the word that was whispered in my ear at the end of my dream.

Okde.

Lunch is unexpectedly traditional: beef consommé, roast lamb, minted new potatoes, crunchy carrots, cauliflower, green beans, and for dessert raspberry tart and fresh cream. I contribute as little to the conversation as I can get away with; although I’m so used to passing Ruth’s story off as my own it’s quickly reaching the point where I sometimes have to stop and remind myself I didn’t actually experience those events, I fear that Cathryn will pounce on the smallest inconsistency and expose me for a fraud.

Ah well, next time a boy asks me to spend the day with him I’ll know not to turn the offer down in favour of his mum and her friend.

At the end of the meal Kerrie gets up to go to the bathroom, explaining that the second helping of tart she simply couldn’t resist has resulted in her getting pips stuck behind her denture. Cathryn and Celeste retire to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, while Niamh rushes back to the latter’s room and the stack of reggae albums and singles she’s developed a sudden liking for. I stay seated, resisting the temptation to burp and reflecting that if I’m down south for very much longer I might have to go on a diet of lettuce leaves and crispbread when I get back to stop my waistline ballooning out of control.

At the head of the table, Millicent is in regretful mood.

“Kerrieanne makes me feel so old sometimes,” she sighs. “There she is, younger than my Cathryn by nearly four years and already she has a grandson. Help me up, dear, we’ll talk outside.”

I haul myself up and let her grasp my shoulder as I lift her to her feet. She weighs nothing at all, the poor love. I’d pick her up in my arms if I didn’t think it would be an affront to her dignity.

Although the sun is shining as we step through the French windows, the verandah faces north and will remain in shadow until late afternoon. Once I’ve lowered Millicent into her chair and wheeled it as far as the top of the ramp leading down to the grass, I reach forward to arrange her shawl and plump out the cushions behind her back. It gives me some amusement to picture Cunningham’s face if he could be here to see my breasts wobbling in their D cups as I go about my task. He might have spurned me after we kissed, but something tells me I’d have little trouble enticing him between the sheets.

Now if that doesn’t put me off my food…

“Have you ever considered a career as a home help?” asks Millicent. “You seem to have the same talent for it as Celeste.”

I sit on the balustrade, open my bag and take out a cigarette.

“To be honest, love, I don’t think I’ve got the patience.”

“I was a nurse, you know. During the war. That’s when I met Alfred.”

“Alfred?”

“My late husband.”

“Oh, I see. So you had Cathryn before you married him?”

Millicent closes her eyes, as if she finds the question unbearably intrusive. I light up and wait for her to continue.

“Singapore,” she smiles. “It was a lovely city.”

“You lived there?”

“He was on a destroyer. They brought him in with burns to the chest and left shoulder, and a fractured tibia. The very next day we were shipped out. We lost everything.”

“That must’ve been awful for you.”

She sighs, her expression becoming much more lucid as she tears herself back to the present.

“You know why Cathryn’s never had children, don’t you?”

“Not really...”

Though I can guess.

“She’s approaching a point in her life when she’ll wake up one day and realise it’s too late to change her mind. She hasn’t noticed middle age creeping up on her, a woman never does. How long have you been married?”

Here we go again.

Your name?

Ruth Hansford-Jones.

And your chosen specialist subject is...?

The girl I never was.

“Uh...just under a year.”

“When did you leave him?”

“November.”

“Then he was a mistake. End it and move on. Take a lover, if you haven’t already done so.”

When Celeste arrives to administer Millicent’s medication I snatch the opportunity to escape the old woman’s clutches with both hands.

Take a lover, if you haven’t already done so.

She makes it sound as straightforward as nipping into Fine Fare for a packet of biscuits.

The bathroom is empty — though Kerrie’s dental plate is still soaking in one of the glasses beside the largest of the three washbasins — so I rinse my hands in the bowl to the left of the one she’s using, and sit on the stool to fix my make-up. After a few minutes she walks through the door, touching me lightly on the shoulder as she passes. It’s her way of letting me know that the real business of the day can’t be postponed for very much longer.

But before we begin I need her to clear something up for me.

“Was Millicent’s first husband killed?”

Kerrie pauses in the act of inserting the denture between her lips.

“Her firtht huthband?”

“She said she met Alfred during the war. Cathryn would have been about two when it broke out.”

I finish touching up my mascara while she fits her smile back in place.

“What else did Millicent tell you?” she says eventually.

“Nothing much. She mentioned that they were evacuated from Singapore, and then changed the subject. The reason I’m asking is I don’t want to put my foot in it again, that’s all.”

Kerrie pulls her chair closer.

“Cathy was adopted in 1942. That’s all I know. Millicent’s kept it from her. I haven’t a clue why. So don’t say anything, okay?”

I’m about to ask her how she came by this information when Niamh dashes in, dreadlocks flailing.

“Can I stay and help out in the shop tomorrow? Can I, mum? Cathy said she’s got to go over to Portsmouth on Tuesday so I won’t be coming back on my own. Can I, mum? Can I?”

“What are you going to do for clothes?”

“Oh, I’ll borrow something off Celeste.”

“Something from Celeste.”

Niamh rolls her eyes at me.

“Mothers,” she mouths.

“Well all right, then,” says Kerrie, receiving a hug for her pains.

“Celeste’s ready to do your hair now,” Niamh tells her. “She says she’ll do yours as well if you want, Ruth.”

“She dyed it last time I was here,” explains Kerrie. “My natural colour’s the same as Sinead’s.”

“She did a good job of hiding all the grey, didn’t she mum?”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Why don’t you run along and tell Cathy you can stay before I change my mind?” As soon as the door has closed behind her daughter, she turns to the mirror. “I’ve decided to have a turn as a brunette.”

I stand to move behind her, brushing back the short, multicoloured strands hiding the top of her left ear.

“I’d ask her to take these bits off,” I suggest.

“And move the parting back to the side? I might just do that. You know, I used to have really short hair all the time when my children were younger. It’s so much easier to look after.”

Celeste arrives a moment or two later with Niamh in tow. Both are carrying trays filled with bottles, tubes, sachets and other tonsorial equipment. I decide to sit this one out — which makes it all the more difficult to understand why, when Kerrie and I finally show Cathryn the notebook and tell her the tale that goes with it, my tousled locks are as black as a starless night.

The sun has set behind the wooded hills between Ryde and the Medina estuary, its departure clearing the way for the lights shining from Gosport, Portsmouth, Southsea and Hayling Island to play their part in defying the encroaching darkness. Through the starboard windows of the saloon deck I follow them eastward until they shrink into insignificance; a few minutes into the crossing and my reflection, so different from the image I’ve become accustomed to, has masked all but the brightest.

I feel as if I’ve turned a very significant corner. The girl looking back at me is no longer the redhead who stole Richard Brookbank’s body. That link to my old life has been severed.

It’s some consolation for what has been a difficult and ultimately disappointing day.

“So that’s it, then.”

Kerrie’s remark is addressed to herself as much as me. Her quest is over, her role as amateur sleuth has ended in failure. The friend she counted on to help her make sense of this adventure has let her down, professing to be as mystified as us by the events we related in such painstaking detail, and seeming more interested in our thoughts regarding the latest torrid offering from the pen of ‘Katie Chang’.

“Looks like it,” I reply unconstructively, only slowly becoming aware that I’m fidgeting with my necklace and by doing so catching the unwelcome eye of a slovenly youth across the aisle.

“You’d think she’d have something to say about it all.”

“Unless she didn’t want to speak her mind in front of me.”

“That’s nonsense, sweetheart.”

“Come on, Kerrie, we hardly hit it off.”

“She’s like that with everyone at first. If you’d made a bad impression I’d know.”

I let the matter rest. Deception is tiring work, and I fear I’ll have a lot more of it to do before Kerrie and I part company for the final time.

The boat arrives in Portsmouth at twenty past nine. We get ready to disembark in lighter spirits, talking about the fashions we might try out this summer.

“You’ve a lot more choice as regards colour now you’ve got dark hair,” Kerrie remarks as we wait for the queue to start moving. “Blues and pinks especially.”

“Pink,” I grunt.

“Don’t say it like that!”

“I suppose I could carry it off…yeah, it would symbolise the new Ruth, footloose and fancy free.”

“You’ve been that for months, sweetheart. By now you should have chosen the man who’s going to be spreading your legs every night, and digging your claws into him to make sure he doesn’t get away.”

“That’s what Millicent said — though she didn’t put it in quite those terms.”

“I don’t imagine she did!”

She touches a hand to the near stubble above her left ear. It moves to the back of her neck, significantly more of which is visible thanks to Celeste’s scissors. For a moment I assume that’s the reason she’s begun to frown; then I see her point to the bottom of the gangway.

“That’s Gerald! What on earth’s he doing here?”

The gentleman in question is tall and rangy, with short, dark hair and a Clark Gable moustache. His immaculately pressed brown suit, together with his rigid military bearing, make it easy for me to identify him as Rosie’s former husband.

And going by what’s written on his face he hasn’t come to invite us for a drink.

The moment we step through the entrance to the terminal, Gerald Cooper takes Kerrie to one side and speaks urgently into her ear. I watch her eyes widen in shock as her hand moves to cover her mouth. Whatever tidings he’s brought, they are not good.

When she turns to me I hurry over, reaching out to grip her fingers tightly in mine.

“We’ve been broken into,” she gasps. “Eamonn’s in hospital.”

“He’s not badly hurt,” Gerald informs us. “David came back in time to help him and his brother chase them off. He’s waiting for you at the Queen Alexandra. Sinead and Padraig are with Rosemary. They’re both a bit shaken, but otherwise unharmed. The police were still there when I left, so the situation’s under control.”

“Was there much damage?” I ask him as we walk quickly up the ramp towards the main platform and the exit.

“You must be Ruth. Well, let’s just say it could have been a good deal worse. By the way, where’s Niamh?”

“She’s staying with Cathryn for a couple of days,” answers Kerrie.

“That’s probably for the best. I think we’re all in for a fairly late night.”

Gerald’s S-reg Citro?n is parked in almost exactly the same spot where Rosie pulled up this morning. While he’s unlocking the door I give Kerrie a look that spells out the name Egerton in letters so big they must be visible from space. She only needs to tip her head a fraction of an inch to confirm that she’s thinking the along the very same lines.

He’s just an underling, of course.

It’s de Monnier who’s after the notebook, and it seems she’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get her hands on it.

I only wish I knew why.

By midnight most of the clearing up has been done. Sinead went to bed half an hour ago, and Rosie returned next door shortly afterwards pleading an important meeting early tomorrow morning. I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of her; the fact that the intrusion happened only a couple of days after Kerrie’s car was so badly damaged laid me open to the kind of interrogation not seen in this country since we stopped burning heretics.

Eamonn, who was released from the treatment room at a quarter to eleven boasting two stitches above his left eyebrow, is next to take his leave of us. Kerrie hugs her ‘wounded soldier’ while I send him a smile of genuine admiration. Going by Dave’s description of the men he found grappling with Kerrie’s sons I’m quite sure they were Lantern Jaw and Pug Face; any teenage boy who tackles that pair of heavies is a hero in my book.

When Gerald and Kerrie head into the living room to begin making an inventory of the items that will eventually appear on the insurance claim and Padraig comes out with a thinly disguised excuse to go for a cigarette I’m left alone with Dave. It’s an awkward situation — for me at any rate.

“Handy bloke to have around,” he remarks, tying up the last of the bin bags.

“Gerald? Yeah, I suppose he is.”

“Proposed to her the week before last.”

“He didn’t!” I exclaim. “What did she say to that?”

“She’s thinking about it. Don’t worry, Kay told me from the off that she was going to marry him. It’s a question of whether she accepts this time or the next.”

“You seem pretty calm about it.”

“Sometimes you just have to move on.”

He’s about to continue when Kerrie returns, dragging me into the living room for what she describes as an ‘urgent confab’. Gerald closes the door behind us and leans against it to stop anyone barging in.

“I’ve told him everything,” Kerrie confesses to me.

“What?” I cry. “You said–“

“Those men weren’t your common or garden burglars,” Gerald interjects. “They broke in before it was fully dark, so it’s reasonable to suppose that they didn’t care who saw them. That tells me they were looking for something valuable enough to offset the risk of being discovered.”

“They came into my home, when three of my children were here,” adds Kerrie. “I’m not about to turn down the offer of a helping hand, not when my family have been threatened.”

“This is the plan, Ruth. I take the notebook with me and deposit it in my bank’s night safe.”

Kerrie nods her agreement. I notice that her hand is resting in the crook of his elbow. She’s chosen the man who’s going to steer her through this crisis, and it isn’t the one she’s sleeping with.

But I’m still loath to mention what I saw last night. None of us need the confrontation that would inevitably follow — least of all the person who’d have to explain why she kept quiet about it for so long.

“Tomorrow I have to go to Reading, because I can’t postpone seeing my mum and my sisters any longer,” says Kerrie. “I’ll tell everyone you’ll be travelling with me as far as Fareham, which I believe is where you said your husband lives.”

Gerald moves closer to her. They’re a couple, whether they realise it yet or not.

“Kerrie’s going to order a taxi in the morning to take you both to Cosham station,” he informs me. “I’ll meet you there at half-past nine.”

“Once Gerry’s driven me to mum’s I want you to see what you can find out about Susan Dwyer — you remember, the girl from Glastonbury. You’ve done your bit as my trusty sidekick, sweetheart, now Gerry can be yours.”

I don’t have a chance to voice my opinion of this scheme — not that it would carry much weight — due to the sudden appearance of Padraig, who has decided to reward himself for his bravery and hard graft with a can of lager. Gerald stands aside to let him through, then decides it’s time he was on his way.

Kerrie sees him to his car. Meanwhile Dave comes in and puts on a Gallagher and Lyle album. Soon the gentle strains of ‘Never Give Up On Love’ are drifting from the stereo — an ironic choice, considering what he told me a few minutes ago.

Doomed though their relationship may be, it isn’t long before Kerrie and Dave are demonstrating that they can smooch with the best of them.

Padraig puts down his can.

“Are we going to join in or just stare at them?” he says, holding out his hand.

“Good idea, Pad,” murmurs Kerrie.

The snare has snapped shut before I realised it was there. I can’t refuse a nineteen year old boy a dance when his mother is in the same room.

Perhaps it’s fate getting me back for wanting Cunningham to kiss me.

Putting on my best smile, I extend my fingers so they’re just touching Padraig’s. They entwine automatically as my body’s reflexes take over; the contact feels anything but unpleasant, helping me to relax and allow my partner to draw me towards him. Our bodies move together, clumsily at first, then with a synchronicity that improves with each sway of our hips.

Kerrie drags herself free from her boyfriend’s embrace.

“Well done this evening,” she tells her son, kissing his cheek. “Don’t keep her up too late, will you?”

She follows Dave from the room. Padraig draws me closer.

“That was some night,” he says into my ear. “Love the hair, by the way.”

“Thanks. Glad you like it.”

The subtle pressure of his hand against the small of my back eases me even nearer. I’m not altogether comfortable about this, but I’m too tired to do anything but let instinct elbow its way into the driving seat. My head lolls against his chest, my fingers move to his shoulders, my thighs interlock with his.

Then…

Jesus, what’s that?

“Oops!” he splutters as I jump back from him.

I try to speak, but it’s a futile endeavour. I’ve just experienced the sensation of an erect penis pressing against my abdomen. I realise it was bound to happen at some point, but even so...

“Yes…er, well…” is about the best I can manage.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to, you know...”

He looks so dejected that it actually makes me ashamed to realise how shocked I felt.

“That’s all right,” I hear myself say. “To be honest with you I’d have been insulted if you hadn’t.”

We both start laughing.

“Ruth…” he begins, and this time the intuition that tells me to place a finger on his lips and say ‘goodnight’ is entirely my own.

Back in my room, I sit at the dressing table to admire Celeste’s handiwork and smile at the stir it’s bound to create among the regulars at the Gladstone when their gingery-blonde barmaid returns as a raven-haired temptress. I know I should be concentrating on more important matters, but they can wait.

Sufficient unto the day, and all that.