Now he was desperate to be rid of thirteen Torland Place and he was finding it hard to find a buyer; a combination of the national financial situation and the house’s grim history. But he’d keep on trying.

The woman hadn’t said much but she certainly seemed interested. Too interested, perhaps. However, he knew that she wasn’t a journalist after a juicy story. He knew who she was: their paths had crossed professionally on several occasions but he wouldn’t have classed her as even an acquaintance.

‘I’ll take it. I’m disposing of some property on behalf of my husband so the price you’re asking isn’t a problem.’

‘I’m letting it go cheap because of the condition of the place and . . .’

‘And the history? It’s the history that attracts me, Mr Cassidy. And my husband. When he . . . when he comes out of hospital I want him to have a proper home to return to.’

Cassidy felt the blood drain from his face. He’d heard that there’d been an odd sort of wedding in the chapel of the secure hospital but he had no idea that a release was on the cards. The news disturbed him but he tried to keep his expression neutral. ‘But I thought . . .’

‘He’ll get better. That’s why he’s in a secure mental hospital and not a prison. His condition’s treatable and he won’t be there for ever.’

Cassidy saw a smug smile on the face of Carla McNeil, née Vernon. Then the image of his dead sister’s face flashed across his mind and he remembered the years he’d spent incarcerated for the crime committed by Ethan McNeil.

But money was money so he shook the woman’s hand.