There was a shriek from Rudi. Bridget looked at Frieda and Frieda bent down and scooped the little boy into her lap. He was hot and heavy and slightly damp.

‘What do you do?’

‘I teach Italian at the language school. Usually I have mornings free and work in the afternoons, then several evenings a week.’ She was still curt. ‘I’m half Italian.’

‘You look half Italian.’

‘Yes, well.’ She scrutinized Frieda. ‘You’re not my idea of a nanny.’

‘What is your idea of a nanny?’

‘Young, for a start.’

Frieda shrugged. ‘What happened to your childcare?’

‘She suddenly decided she was homesick. I suppose I should ask some questions. Do you have any references?’

‘No.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not a real nanny. I’m just doing this for a friend.’

‘I must have misunderstood. Could I talk to this friend?’

‘Of course,’ said Frieda. ‘She’s at work at the moment. But I can get her to call you.’

Bridget looked at Ethan, who was clopping two of his horses along the wooden floor. ‘I suppose he’s a sort of reference. He looks happy enough.’ She bent down and put her face close to Ethan. ‘Are you happy with Carla?’

‘No,’ said Ethan. ‘Not Carla. She –’

‘He’s fine,’ said Frieda. ‘Here.’ She passed Ethan a few more of his wooden animals. Tam took one from him and put it into her mouth, where it bulged in her cheek. Ethan was so astonished he couldn’t even roar. His eyes and mouth grew round.

‘Give that to me now,’ said Frieda to Tam, holding out her hand.

Tam stared at her, mutinous. Bridget looked on, waiting to see what would happen.

‘Now, Tam,’ repeated Frieda.

‘Are you going to count to ten?’ Her voice was muffled because of the toy in her mouth.

‘Certainly not.’

There was a silence. Then Tam spat the animal into her hand.

‘Thank you,’ Frieda said. ‘Now, Ethan, show Tam your animals.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re in her house and sometimes it’s more fun to play with another person.’

‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ Bridget said. Her voice had become marginally friendlier.

‘I’d like to be paid in cash.’

Bridget gave a laugh. ‘It all feels a bit under the counter.’

‘It’s how I work.’

‘How much do you charge?’

Frieda was blank for a moment. What was a plausible amount?

‘Eighty pounds a day?’

‘Great. Fine. I’ll pay you at the end of the week. When can you start?’

‘Now.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Today it is. I don’t have to leave for another hour. Shall we have coffee and I can tell you any practical details you need to know?’

‘I’d like that.’

‘You keep an eye on them. I’ll bring it through.’

Frieda did keep an eye on them. Rudi remained placidly on her lap while she watched the two older children with curiosity. Most of the time, they ignored each other; occasionally there were brief moments when they seemed to notice the other’s presence. At one point, Ethan put out a hand and touched Tam’s hair, which was vivid orange and curly, like a fire on her scalp. She was nothing like her mother.

Bridget came back into the room and handed Frieda her coffee. ‘What will you do with them today?’ she asked.

‘I thought perhaps we’d go to a cemetery.’

‘A cemetery!’

‘It’s sunny and warm and I think there’s one near here that’s good for exploring. We can take a picnic. What time will you be back?’

‘Late. But Al will get home at about five thirty or six. Is that all right?’

‘Fine.’ Frieda took a sip of her coffee, which was rich and strong. ‘Did Sandy come here a lot?’

‘Yes, he did. But why do you want to know?’ Bridget’s voice became cold once more.

‘Because the thing we have in common,’ said Frieda, ‘is Sandy. We both knew him.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘He’s dead, but –’

‘Murdered. Luridly famous. And people who haven’t seen him for ages –’

‘Like me.’

‘– like you, like countless others, are all of a sudden fascinated by him. They should mind their own business.’

‘You’re angry.’

‘Yes, I’m angry – angry that everyone’s suddenly wanting to be his best friend, now that he’s gone.’

‘And angry simply because he’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘You’re angry because he’s dead,’ repeated Frieda; she told herself that she was Carla, the nanny, but she didn’t feel like Carla. She could feel Bridget’s anger, coming off her like hot steam, and noticed how her cheeks were flushed. She watched Tam pull a series of ribbons out of a red cardboard case and hand them to Ethan, who held them between his fingers, his face intent. ‘Because he’s no longer here.’

‘Do you want this job?’

‘Looking after your children, you mean?’

‘Because if you want it, don’t keep on asking about Sandy. I’ve had enough. Leave him in peace. And me.’

The day was hot, almost sultry, but inside the cemetery it was cool and dim. Light filtered through the leaves, falling in trickles on the gravestones, many of which were covered with moss, their inscriptions indecipherable. The place was overgrown, full of brambles – it would be a good place for blackberries in the autumn – and birdsong. London felt far off, although they could hear the rumble of traffic in the distance. Frieda pushed Rudi in the buggy and Tam and Ethan played a chaotic and increasingly quarrelsome game of hide-and-seek, before sitting on a fallen log to eat their picnic.

Frieda thought about Bridget. Whenever Sandy was mentioned, she became tense and enraged, and she wondered why. If they had been simply friends, would Bridget be so passionately defensive about him? Had they been lovers? Bridget was beautiful and strong, and Frieda could see why Sandy might fall for her, but she was married to one of his close colleagues and she was the mother of two tiny children. But Veronica Ellison had said that Sandy had had a relationship he felt bad about. Perhaps Bridget was also consumed by grief and guilt, and the terrible effort of keeping such a thing secret now that Sandy had been killed. Or perhaps there was something more –

‘Frieda.’ Ethan tugged at her hand.

‘She’s Carla,’ said Tam. ‘Mummy said so.’

‘No.’ Ethan was firm but his face was troubled. ‘Frieda.’

‘Carla.’ Tam’s voice was a chant, jeering. ‘Carla, Carla, Carla.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Frieda, piling the remains of the picnic into the bag and picking up Rudi, laying a consoling hand on Ethan’s hot head. ‘We can buy ice creams on the way home.’

Rudi was asleep by the time they reached Bridget and Al’s house and she lifted him into his cot. Then she put Tam and Ethan in front of a DVD that Tam chose. It was four o’clock and Al wouldn’t be back until half past five.

She started in the living room, acting on the assumption that even if Tam and Ethan looked up from the cartoon they wouldn’t think it odd that she was pulling open drawers and cupboards, rifling through papers. She didn’t know what she was in search of, just that she was looking for something that would explain Bridget’s angry distress over Sandy. She found bills, she found bank statements, she found an architect’s drawings and brochures about houses to rent in Greece and Croatia. There were playing cards, board games, a ball of rubber bands, sketch pads with no sketches in them, simple sheet music for the violin, with pencil notations on it, stacks of publications about neuroscience going back several years, a whole drawer of postcards and birthday cards to both Al and Bridget, none of which were from Sandy. The two children didn’t look up; both had their mouths open in an identical expression of befuddled attention.

In the hall, she looked at the photos on the walls, but none of them was of Sandy – there were several of Tam and Rudi and a couple of Al and Bridget when they were younger. Al was even thinner than he was now, narrow-shouldered, narrow-hipped, freckled, pale-skinned. Bridget was lustrous, like a dark fruit. Dangerous, thought Frieda, walking into the kitchen where she found only kitchen things. At least one of them was obviously a serious cook. Like Sandy had been: she imagined him in there, among the sharp-bladed knives and copper pans, the complicated array of spices, rolling up his sleeves. She glanced at the recipe books, half expecting to see one of his among them.