The grandfather clock on the landing struck midnight with an old, slightly uneven chime, as if the sound had travelled a long way to get here.

Jean Samson looked up from the Towpath file and realised she’d read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

Her room at Grimshaw Hall was bigger than she needed, with ceilings high enough to make the wardrobe look like a doll’s piece of furniture. Heavy curtains framed the window, patterned with faded flowers that might once have been cheerful. The bed was wide, the mattress firm, the duvet too warm.

The bedside lamp threw a golden pool of light over the bed where she’d spread out the papers. Photographs. Statements. Newspaper clippings. A map of the canal with red circles around key locations.

Karen Carter.<...

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