'Thanks-lovely. Yes, a social call.'

'I wasn't born yesterday.'

'You weren't,' admitted Joseph, smiling. 'I want to live in the caravan for a while.'

'Heck, you'll freeze.'

'I'll be fine.'

She considered him for a moment, chewing the side of her mouth. 'I hope that sister of yours did the washing-up before she left.'

They crossed the farmyard with Jessy padding alongside them. A red Ferguson tractor was delivering bales of hay to cattle in an open-sided barn. At the wheel sat a burly man in overalls.

'I see Gus is still here,' remarked Joseph.

'Not so much, nowadays. His father had a heart bypass, so he's been doing most of the running of their place as well. When he is here he spends more time on the campsite than he does on the stock. It's the only thing that pays its way.'

'Farm not doing well?'

'Nah, hardly worth the bother. Moorland farms are dying.' A kissing gate in a dry stone wall opened onto the first of a series of broad terraces leading down to a beck. Campervans were parked at the top, and a group of teenagers played with a Frisbee. Abigail and Joseph strolled together to the lowest tier. It was muddier here, the grass thick and rank. Gus had evidently been neglecting his mowing duties; or perhaps there simply wasn't enough of Gus to go around. Several static caravans lay among twisted trees overlooking the beck. Abigail and Joseph headed for the last of the row.

'Huzzah,' grunted Joseph, lifting a lichen-encrusted rock. 'Marie left the key.'

He climbed two steps to unlock the door, standing back to let Abigail enter first. Their footsteps made the structure shake. The place smelled of damp, so Joseph propped the door open.

'Well, she did the washing-up,' said Abigail grimly, looking around. 'But-silly girl-it wasn't right clever to leave elder-flowers in a marmalade jar!'

A galley kitchen ran beside a built-in table and seats. One sliding door led into a bedroom only just large enough to fit its double bed; another door led into a tiny bathroom. The far end opened out into a living area with covered benches and windows along three sides.

'Bingo!' cried Joseph, peering into a cupboard. 'It's all still here. Duvets, linen, blankets, towels . . . I'd forgotten we even owned the gas heater. Zoe bought this stuff. She decided the caravan was manky, drove all the way to York and came back with brand-new everything. See? Some of these are still in their packaging. Cost a bloody fortune.'

Without comment, Abigail moved to a window and stood looking down at the beck.

Joseph was caught up in the excitement of the past-made-present. 'Aha, yes! I remember her buying these, too. The kids loved 'em.' He pulled out a packet. 'Glow sticks. Little plastic tubes that glow in the dark. Zoe said no camping expedition was complete without glow sticks. We spent hours twirling them, throwing them, making bracelets . . . and at bedtime the kids each had their own personal light source. Brilliant!'

Noticing Abigail's silence, Joseph realised that he'd spoken of Zoe as though she was alive and well and about to arrive for a week's holiday. He closed the cupboard doors and joined Abigail at the window, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. The valley was already full of shadow; he could scarcely see the beck. Patches of grass by the water hadn't been touched by sunlight at all that day. The frost had never melted, and now another layer would form.

'I forget,' he said.

'Forget?'

'I still can't imagine a world without her. That sounds ridiculous. Can't imagine a world without her . . . Pretty crazy, coming from the idiot who killed her. Marie would have a field day with that. She'd say it proves I've got a narcissistic personality disorder, or something.'

Abigail fiddled with the window's catch and slid it open. Clean air rolled in, carrying the tang of peat and bracken. 'Doesn't seem more than a week ago that your parents bought this caravan. State-of-the-art it was, then. You took your first steps out by that tree-see? The knotted old bugger there. All the mothers fussed over you, little curly head. Your big sister's nose went out of joint. I caught her prodding you to make you cry.'

A muscle contracted beside Joseph's mouth. It wasn't quite a smile. 'She still does that.'

'You spent most of your summers here.'

'Poor Mum was only too happy to bring us. She'd sit around with the other mothers and drink cider and laugh all day every day, while twenty kids ran riot and dammed the beck. I never once saw her laugh like that at home.'

A pool glinted in the beck below, mirroring the pale sky. Joseph remembered lying there on summer days. He could still feel the eddying water as he submerged himself, tea-coloured ice that forced the breath from his lungs.

'So,' said Abigail briskly. 'What are your plans?'

'Bloody Nora! Give me time.'

'You've had plenty of time. About three years, I should imagine.'

He looked up towards the moor. 'First thing I plan to do is get myself up there,' he said. 'Just because I can.'

Once Abigail had left, Joseph made his way downhill to where stepping stones lay half-submerged among glassy rapids. Somebody was coming towards him across the stones; he dimly registered walking boots and a swirl of claret skirt. Some part of his brain appreciated the supple ease of her movements, but he desperately didn't want to speak to anyone, so was relieved when she merely smiled and passed by.

He barely hesitated, gauging distances before leaping from one rock to another with sure-footed certainty. After all, he and Marie were the architects of this bridge; it had taken them a whole day. Once across, he struck up the hillside with long strides. Evening was overtaking the moors now, and the temperature had dropped still further. Sheep lifted their heads to watch him pass, mildly curious about the dogless human.

Joseph had climbed for twenty minutes by the time he pushed his way through a patch of tangled bracken and breasted the last ridge, to be greeted by a knife-edged wind. High above him two curlews twisted and soared in the emptiness, spotlit by the last rays of sun. He could neither see nor hear any other sign of life. Even Abigail's farmhouse was hidden from view. He revelled in the solitude.

Spreading his hands wide, he let himself drop straight back like a doll tumbling off a shelf. Or perhaps a mother falling to her death; there was no marble fender, up there on the moor. He dropped onto a cushion of skeletal heather, and bounced.

Hours later, he made up the bed he'd last shared with Zoe. He used the turquoise sheets she'd chosen and which cost a bloody fortune. Pressing his face into them, he caught the lingering breath of her perfume. He added every duvet he could find. Then he dug out a book and read until long after midnight, in the hope that he might then be able to sleep. It didn't work. Sleep was a luxury.

He'd been woken by a glowing sunrise, last time he'd slept in that bed. Zoe was pressed very close, her cheek on his shoulder, elegant fingers tangled in his hair. She'd seemed so well during that last holiday. They'd been happy-though they knew their happiness was fragile, like thin sunshine. Joseph remembered tracing the line of her face with his forefinger, adoring the high cheekbones and elfin features. He'd inhaled the warm scent of her and watched as the growing day crept up her body, gilding each contour. He had wished with all his soul that the precious moment could go on forever. He'd known it would not.

Rain was chattering quietly outside. He lifted his wrist to check the luminous dial of his watch. Almost two in the morning. He was drifting at last. He was drifting in the darkness, between Zoe-scented sheets. The rain whispered to him.

At two nineteen, he woke with a yell of horror. He'd just killed Zoe. She was lying on the hearthrug, her green-glass eyes wide open. Dropping to his knees, he began to pump her chest-trying to start her heart, frantically shouting her name. He knew her life was over. So was his.

The rain was tapping on the window, tap-tappety-tap, asking to come in. It took a long time for his racing heart to slow.

At two thirty-eight he sat bolt upright, sweating with panic.

He'd just killed Zoe. Her eyes were wide open. He was on his knees. His life was over.

He woke at three, because he'd just killed Zoe.

And three eleven.

And three thirty.

He was in his bunk in a cell, suffocated by blackness. He must have gone blind because it was never completely dark in prison. He heard a gentle bleat, and wondered what the hell a sheep was doing in Armley.

Or perhaps he wasn't in Armley.

The rain had ceased, leaving complete stillness save for an almost imperceptible trickling of the stream. He'd forgotten how deafening silence could be. He'd spent the past three years as a captive audience, forced to listen to the snoring and rambling and cursing of other men. He'd longed for peace; yet now, in the icy night, it blared between his ears like an alarm. He lay with his eyes open, assaulted by the silence. He was profoundly tired. He'd been tired for three years, because Zoe was dead.

Zoe was alive-gloriously, vibrantly alive.

She dominated the dusty stage of a South London school. Pocket Shakespeare, they were called. Three actors and a box of props, standing in front of a bloodthirsty mob of fifth and sixth formers. In an hour they whipped through Hamlet, Othello and Romeo and Juliet. The bedroom scene in Romeo and Juliet triggered catcalls and ribald slurpings-Joseph collared the ringleaders and handed out detentions-but mad Ophelia had the teenage monsters eating out of her hands. Perhaps they recognised themselves. Joseph was a new teacher, roped in for crowd control. He leaned against the wall, goggling helplessly at the redhead with green eyes and a ringing voice.

She must have been half the weight of the two male actors; there wasn't an ounce to spare. Cheekbones, shoulders, hips-all sharp, defined, like an active child's. Energy radiated out of her, bewitching the cynically gum-chewing audience. Poor Desdemona was about to die. She was pleading for a little more time. Joseph wished she didn't have to die. He wished he could change the ending.

The school's head of drama collared him as the students were filing out of the hall. She was called Henrietta. Posh Hetty. It was she who'd invited the group to perform; their manager was a friend of hers.

'Talented, aren't they?' she demanded.

'Very.'

'Party. Tonight. My place.' She scribbled an address. 'It's my birthday. Be there or be square.'

Joseph was surprised to be asked, and knew he wouldn't go. He'd only been at the school six weeks, shunned staffroom politics and could think of nothing less appealing than a stand-up-and-shout birthday bash.

'Happy Birthday, Hetty, but I'm afraid-' 'They'll be there too.'

'Who?'

Hetty's smile was arch. 'Pocket Shakespeare. All of them.'

'I think I can make it,' said Joseph.

He spotted Desdemona as soon as he walked in. She was wearing an emerald green shift dress, swaying fluidly to the rhythm as Leonard Cohen murmured 'Hallelujah' through a pair of retro speakers. A couple of pinstriped suits were all over her. Joseph was on his way over when he was hailed by Posh Hetty, three sheets to the wind. As soon as she'd sailed on, one of the school's secretaries buttonholed him. She had sharp blue eyes and an English-rose complexion, and seemed determined to take him home with her that night. On any other evening he would have been delighted to oblige, but not this one. He kept scanning the crowd for an emerald dress. Perhaps she was in the kitchen. Perhaps she'd gone.

'You're distracted,' yelled the secretary above the din.

'Sorry.'

She touched his hand. 'My glass is empty.'

Joseph picked up their glasses and began to shoulder his way through the throng towards the makeshift bar. There she was, perched on a sofa and edging away from one of the suits. He was leaning right over her, though she'd put a hand on his chest to ward him off. She caught Joseph's eye, mimed an expression of horror and mouthed help!

Joseph dumped the glasses on a table and was charging to the rescue when Pinstripe pounced. He slumped like a great blubbery sea lion, simultaneously tearing down the dress and trying to kiss Desdemona. Joseph grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him onto the floor. The guy was drunk, so it wasn't difficult. He sprawled red-faced, gawping up at Joseph.

'What the fuck're you doing?' he yelled. Public-school accent. 'Are you off your head? That girl's mine.'

She was laughing. She was laughing so much that she couldn't speak.

'I don't think she likes you,' said Joseph.

'You cunt,' screamed Pinstripe, staggering to his feet and lunging.

Joseph shouldn't have done it. Really, he shouldn't. He knew he ought to walk away but the temptation was just irresistible. The guy was legless, and there was a dazzling girl with green eyes to impress. He only hit him once, though 'I think we'd better leave now,' gasped the girl, as blood fountained from Pinstripe's nose. She grabbed Joseph's arm and pulled him into the hall. She was still laughing as they scuttled into the lift. 'D'you know who that was?'

'Nope.'

'Neither do I. But according to him, he's an up-and-coming barrister and London's most eligible bachelor.'

The lift was very old, and very slow. The girl smelled of sandalwood. Her green dress clung to her. 'I know you,' she said. 'You're the Russian prince.'

Joseph smiled. He felt very commonplace beside her. 'Sorry. Wrong bloke.'

'Right bloke. I spotted you at Parkway High. You were leaning against the wall with your arms folded.'

'True.'

'You looked bored out of your brain.'

'Not true.'

'And there was a monster right in front of you who was texting. I could see the little bastard fiddling with his phone the whole way through Desdemona's murder.'

'Sorry. I didn't spot him.'

'I made sure you were invited tonight.'

'You did?'

She laid her mouth at the side of his throat. The touch burned him; warm breath and coconut oil. 'You've gallantly rescued me from death by boredom at the hands of London's most eligible bachelor. Let's go and celebrate.'

It was like a night out with a hurricane. Hurricane Zoe. He was a night owl, but he couldn't keep up with her. She danced him off his feet, she drank him under the table. In the pearly dawn they found themselves strolling along the embankment. His jersey was draped over her shoulders, and she carried a pair of gold sandals in one hand. She seemed as alert as she had hours before, and voracious for his story. She asked a question, listened acutely, asked another. He'd never felt so understood.

They were crossing Waterloo Bridge when she broke away from his side. The next second she was perched on the handrail, legs dangling over the mud-brown expanse of the Thames. The tide sprinted below, murderous currents crisscrossing and swirling.

'Hop down,' begged Joseph. 'Just to please me. If you go in there, you won't come up.'

She laughed, took both her hands off the rail and stretched her arms wide, Titanic-style. A passing car honked. Joseph stopped breathing.

'Get down,' he said quietly. 'Please.'

'Shall I dive?' She sounded cheerful, as though deciding whether to be sinful and have a chocolate fudge sundae for dessert or not. 'It'd be fun. I'm a very good swimmer.'

Joseph edged closer, ready to grab her if she fell. Suddenly she looked at her watch.

'Oh no!' she moaned. 'Bugger bugger bugger.'

'You're meant to be somewhere?'

She swung her legs back over the handrail, landing lightly on the pavement. 'Screen test at nine o'clock. Gotta go. Taxi!'

Even the black cabs were in her thrall. The second she raised a slender arm, two of them appeared out of nowhere.

'Phone number?' shouted Joseph.

She slid a biro out of his pocket, pushed back his sleeve and scribbled on his wrist. 'Don't wash it off,' she warned, kissing the place where she'd written. As her lips touched his wrist, a rooster crowed.

He stood watching until the taxi disappeared across the bridge. She'd left with his jersey over her shoulders and his pen in her handbag. He didn't mind at all. He'd be seeing her again. He knew that for sure.

The rooster crowed twice more, and shattered everything.