Veronica was striking, and knew it. She had long blond hair, which she had a habit of tossing and playing with as she spoke. Her makeup was heavy, emphasising her mouth and her big blue eyes. She had a great figure, which she showed off in tight jeans. And she carried herself with confidence, with the unselfconscious sense of authority of someone who has known every advantage since birth.

Veronica ordered a pint of Guinness, which she drank quickly. She spoke a lot. There was something ever so slightly stilted about her speech. Mariana wondered if she’d had elocution lessons. When Veronica revealed that, after graduation, she intended to be an actress, Mariana wasn’t surprised. She thought that beneath the makeup, deportment, and elocution, there was another person entirely, but Mariana had no idea who that was, and suspected Veronica might not either.

It was Veronica’s twentieth birthday in a week’s time. She was trying to organise a party, despite the current grim circumstances in college.

‘Life must go on, right? It’s what Tara would have wanted. Anyway, I’m hiring out a private room at the Groucho Club in London. Zoe, you must come,’ she added, somewhat unconvincingly.

Zoe grunted and focused on her drink.

Mariana glanced at the other girl – Serena Lewis, silently sipping white wine. Serena had a slim, petite build, and the way she sat there reminded Mariana of a little perching bird, watching everything but saying nothing.

Unlike Veronica, Serena wore no makeup – not that she needed to; she had a clear and flawless complexion. Her long dark hair was tightly plaited, and she wore a pale pink blouse and a skirt that went below the knee.

Serena was from Singapore, but had been brought up in a series of English boarding schools. She had a soft voice, with a distinctly upper-class English accent. Serena was as reserved as Veronica was forward. She kept checking her phone; her hand was drawn to it like a magnet.

‘Tell me about Professor Fosca,’ said Mariana.

‘What about him?’

‘I heard he and Tara were quite close.’

‘I don’t know where you heard that. They weren’t close at all.’ Veronica turned to Serena. ‘Were they?’

On cue, Serena looked up from texting on her phone. She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. The professor was kind to Tara – but she just used him.’

‘Used him?’ Mariana said. ‘How did she use him?’

‘Serena didn’t mean that,’ Veronica said, interrupting. ‘She means Tara wasted his time and energy. Professor Fosca puts a lot of work into us, you know. He’s the best tutor you could find.’

Serena nodded. ‘He is the most wonderful teacher in the whole world. The most brilliant. And—’

Mariana cut short the eulogy. ‘I was wondering about the night of the murder.’

Veronica shrugged. ‘We were with Professor Fosca all evening. He was giving us a private tutorial in his rooms. Tara was meant to be there, but she didn’t show up.’

‘And what time was this?’

Veronica glanced at Serena. ‘It started at eight, right? And we went on until, what? Ten?’

‘Yeah, I think so. Ten or just after.’

‘And Professor Fosca was with you the entire time?’

Both girls answered at once.

‘Yeah,’ said Veronica.

‘No,’ said Serena.

There was a flash of irritation in Veronica’s eyes. She gave Serena an accusing look. ‘What are you talking about?’

Serena looked flustered. ‘Oh, I – nothing. I mean, he only left for a couple of minutes, that’s all. Just to have a cigarette outside.’

Veronica backed down. ‘Yeah, he did. I forgot. He was only gone a minute.’

Serena nodded. ‘He doesn’t smoke inside when I’m there because I have asthma. He’s really considerate.’

Her phone suddenly beeped as a text came through. She pounced on it. Her face lit up as she read the message.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Serena said. ‘I have to meet someone.’

‘Oh, what?’ Veronica rolled her eyes. ‘The mystery man?’

Serena glared at her. ‘Stop it.’

Veronica laughed, and said in a singsong voice, ‘Serena has a secret boyfriend.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘But he is a secret – she won’t tell us who he is. Even me.’ She gave a knowing wink. ‘I wonder … is he married?’

‘No, he’s not married,’ said Serena, going red. ‘He’s not anything – just a friend. I have to go.’

‘Actually, so do I,’ said Veronica. ‘I have a rehearsal.’ She smiled sweetly at Zoe. ‘It’s such a shame you didn’t get into The Duchess of Malfi. It’s going to be an amazing production. Nikos, the director, is a genius. He’s going to be really famous one day.’ Veronica glanced triumphantly at Mariana. ‘I’m playing the Duchess.’

‘Of course you are. Well, thank you for talking to me, Veronica.’

‘No problem.’

Veronica gave Mariana a sly look; then she left the bar, followed by Serena.

‘Ugh …’ Zoe pushed away her empty glass and gave a long sigh. ‘Told you. Totally toxic.’

Mariana didn’t disagree. She didn’t like them much either.

More importantly, Mariana had the feeling, honed from years of working with patients, that Veronica and Serena had both been lying to her.

But about what – and why?

13

For years, I was afraid even to open the cupboard that contained it.

But today I found myself standing on a chair, reaching up and taking hold of the small wicker box – this collection of things I wanted to forget.

I sat by the light, and opened it. I sifted through the contents: the sad, lonely love letters I wrote to a couple of girls but never sent – a couple of childish stories about farm life – some bad poems I had forgotten about.

But the last thing in this Pandora’s box was something I remembered all too well. The brown leather journal I kept that summer, when I was twelve – the summer I lost my mother.

I opened the journal and flicked through the pages – long entries written in immature, childish handwriting. It looked so trivial. But if it weren’t for the contents of these pages, my life would be very different.

Sometimes it was hard to decipher the writing. It was erratic and scrawled, particularly towards the end, as if written in some haste, in a fit of madness – or sanity. As I sat there, it was as if a fog started to lift.

A path appeared, leading all the way back to that summer. Back to my youth.

It’s a familiar journey. I make it often enough in my dreams: turning onto the winding dirt road, heading towards the farmhouse.

I don’t want to go back.

I don’t want to remember …

And yet – I need to. Because this is more than just a confession. This is a search for what was lost, for all the vanished hopes and forgotten questions. It’s a quest for explanation: for the terrible secrets hinted at in that child’s journal – which I now consult like a fortune-teller, peering into a crystal ball.

Except I don’t seek the future.

I seek the past.

14

At nine o’clock, Mariana went to meet Fred at the Eagle.

The Eagle was the oldest pub in Cambridge, as popular now as it had been in the 1600s. It was a collection of small, interconnecting wood-panelled rooms. It was lit by candlelight, and smelled of roast lamb, rosemary, and beer.

The main room was known as the RAF bar. Several pillars held up the uneven ceiling, which was covered with graffiti from World War II. As Mariana waited at the bar, she became conscious of the messages from dead men above her head. British and American pilots used pens, candles, and cigarette lighters to inscribe their names and squadron numbers on the ceiling, and they scribbled drawings – like cartoons of naked women in lipstick.

Mariana got the attention of the baby-faced barman, wearing a green-and-black-checked shirt. He smiled as he removed a steaming tray of glasses from a dishwasher. ‘What can I get you, love?’

‘A glass of sauvignon blanc, please.’

‘Coming up.’

He poured her a glass of white. Mariana paid for it, then looked for somewhere to sit.

There were young couples everywhere, holding hands and having romantic conversations. She refused to let herself look at the corner table, where she and Sebastian always used to sit.

She checked her watch. Ten minutes past nine.

Fred was late – perhaps he wasn’t coming. She felt hopeful at the thought. She would wait ten minutes, then go.

She gave in and glanced at the corner table. It was empty. And she went over and sat down.

She sat there, stroking the cracks in the wooden table with her fingertips, just like she used to. Sitting here, sipping the cold wine and shutting her eyes, listening to the timeless sound of chatter and laughter all around, she could imagine herself transported back into the past – as long as she kept her eyes shut, she could be there, nineteen years old, waiting for Sebastian to appear in his white T-shirt and his faded blue jeans with the rip across the knee.

‘Hello,’ he said.

But it was the wrong voice – not Sebastian’s – and Mariana felt a split second of confusion before she opened her eyes. And the spell was broken.

The voice belonged to Fred, who was holding a pint of Guinness and grinning at her. His eyes were bright and he looked flushed.

‘Sorry to be late. My supervision ran over, so I cycled as fast as I could. I collided with a lamppost.’

‘Are you alright?’