‘And since you’re a professor in criminology, and not the police, I thought you’d be a good place to start. Hypothetically. On behalf of my friend. She doesn’t know any lawyers. And she also thought they might be a bit close to the … you know. Law.’

‘I see. Well, hypothetically, and on behalf of your friend, there’s no such thing as wilful manslaughter. I believe we covered this before, when we were talking about researching your book. Manslaughter is a mistake. Did your friend make a mistake? Would you like to tell me the circumstances?’

I briefly outlined how my friend’s husband had surprised a burglar, who’d pushed him, and caused his frontal lobe to rupture on a coffee table. But how, because he was such a monster, my friend had left him to die.

‘I see,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Well no, that’s murder. Because intent was there.’

I felt the blood drain from my face. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Yes, I rather thought it might be. Told her it might be.’

‘But of course, if there were mitigating circumstances, which again, I believe we’ve discussed before, in relation to the book you’re writing …’

He knew. He definitely knew. ‘Yes,’ I said miserably. ‘We have.’ Murder. Not good. Not good at all. There was a silence.

‘I do write books,’ I said in a small voice. I realized I wanted him to know I didn’t lie about everything.

‘I know.’

‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. He’d checked me out. I didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

He folded his arms and leaned back on his stool. ‘Can you tell me about the sword of Damocles?’ he said at length. ‘I’m wondering if it’s held by someone. Someone whose windows you tried to see into last time you were here, when you were crouching down in the study, smashing vases. Do you believe they saw something? And, if so, have you asked them what they’re going to do with this information? If they even have any?’

I stared at him. ‘No. I haven’t.’

‘Well, I think that’s the first thing you need to do. Establish if your fears are even grounded. On behalf of your friend. And whether whatever evidence they have is even admissible. It may not be. How long would you say your friend sat on her sofa, watching her husband bleed to death?’

I gazed at him in horror but his eyes were not accusatory. I licked my lips. ‘I’m not sure. About fifteen minutes?’

‘OK. Well, that could have been shock.’

‘Yes.’

We were silent.

‘But it wasn’t,’ I whispered.

‘I would advise your friend against that sort of confession. Who’s to know, let alone the woman herself, what she actually felt at that moment? In the eye of the storm, as it were.’

I nodded.