The bath was full of Griff’s blood, only his head and part of his shoulders showed above it. It was all appallingly, indescribably, grotesquely Grand Guignol. A scene straight out of one of those old British Hammer horror films she and Griff had always found hilarious – they had revelled in anything high camp – only now it was for real. Eleanor knew at once that Griff had been drained of all his blood; that was why his face was so pale, bluish pale, painfully thin and haggard. His eyes had remained open…

Eleanor still did not remember going up to the cassette player, but she must have done. (There had been blood on her hands, as she had discovered afterwards.) She had rewound the tape and pressed the play button. She had expected to hear a final message from Griff, his last words, an explanation, an apologia, the sound of him sobbing or screaming or telling her that he had forgiven her, but what she heard instead was Corinne Coreille’s voice.

‘It came as a shock. Another shock. As though I hadn’t had enough! How I hated you at that moment,’ Eleanor recited from the letter. ‘There is something about your voice – a certain haunting quality. It’s like no other I have ever heard. Griff had played your songs all the time, that was what the neighbours said. They imagined he was French because of his taste in music, also on account of his “flamboyantly European lifestyle”, whatever that may mean. They sounded as though they too disapproved. I would have expected people living in that part of Manhattan to display a greater degree of sophistication, but there it is.’

She rubbed her hands together, Lady Macbeth fashion. ‘Sticky,’ she said. ‘After all this time.’

It was eight years earlier that Griff had fallen under Corinne Coreille’s spell. He was fourteen at the time. They had been watching television together. They had been lolling on a sofa upholstered in mauve velvet that was big enough for eight, under the Sargent portrait of Eleanor’s English great grandmother. They had been eating Hershey’s fudge ice-cream and drinking vanilla soda. It was high summer – late afternoon – Eleanor remembered clearly the golden glow that filtered into the room. All the windows were wide open and the filmy curtains fluttered in the delicate breeze. Earlier on they had had a cushion fight…