The spare room was untidy in the way that a student’s room might be. Books, papers scattered on every surface, clothes twisted into humanoid shapes as they’d been discarded on to the floor. Laptop and television perched on top of stuff on the dressing table. The bed was unmade.

‘This is where I’m currently sleeping,’ said Edward Finch. ‘Come through.’

There were towels on the bathroom floor, but the ceramic surfaces had all recently been wiped clean.

‘This is where the problem really is,’ he said as he opened the door to the back bedroom.

I saw what he meant. The wardrobe doors were open, and their contents spread literally over everything. Dresses, trouser suits, underwear, make-up, scattered on the double bed, bedside tables, dressing table, chairs. Here there was a smell, not a revolting one, just the clinging odour of stale perfume.

Everything that belonged to Edward Finch’s wife was there. Everything except for the woman herself.

He turned to face me. Tears glinted in the innocent brown eyes. ‘I can’t move it,’ he said. ‘I keep trying and I … just can’t move it.’

This was a problem I’d encountered many times before. Bereavement affects people in different ways. Some immediately remove every trace of the deceased, hoping that will kill the memories. Some physically distance themselves, moving house as quickly as possible. Others, like Edward Finch, find removing the belongings of the departed more than they can cope with. I’ve known cases where the bereaved haven’t moved a single item for ten years or longer.

‘I understand, Edward,’ I said. ‘The way you’re reacting is quite common, after the loss of a loved one. And I know that at the moment the task seems insurmountable, but I promise you I can help you achieve it.’

‘As you have helped other people?’ There was a new edge of cynicism in his voice.

‘Exactly. As I have helped other people.’

‘Yes, but I’m not like other people.’

‘No, everyone is different. I’m sure we can find a way to—’

‘Other people didn’t kill their wives, did they?’ said Edward Finch.

FOUR

I didn’t think he was telling the truth. I don’t mean that he was deliberately lying, just that he was confused, that bereavement wasn’t allowing him to think straight. He may have felt guilty about his wife’s death – that’s a very common reaction – but I didn’t think he’d caused it. Anyway, I certainly wasn’t about to pass on what Edward Finch had told me to the police.

So, I ignored his pronouncement, which seemed rather to annoy him, as if he felt cheated of further interrogation. I suggested we should make an appointment for me to come and start the clearance required. That seemed to cheer him up and I went through the ritual of telling him my charges and terms of business. My view was that spending more time with Edward Finch might help me understand why he’d come up with a confession of murder. And help me to judge whether there was any element of truth in the claim.