My phone had been in my hand since about six o’clock in any event, as I’d tentatively researched murder and the sentencing thereof. I say tentatively, because I knew from my Susie Sharpe sleuthing that too much research could lead to trouble. Susie had once got involved with a terrorist trafficking ring, who had kidnapped a young girl, with intent to ship her out to Pakistan and into an arranged marriage. Naturally she’d infiltrated the gang and rescued the girl. A few weeks later there’d been a knock at the door. Two gentlemen from the security squad in Whitehall wanted to know why I was so terribly interested in Al-Qaeda’s extremist rings and could they possibly look at my computer? Of course they could, and of course I gabbled away and explained and made copious cups of tea and showed them all my notes and books, and eventually their faces softened. They nodded silently, murmuring something about having to be very careful. Them, or me? I wasn’t sure, but I was very glad to see the back of them, and from that day on, Susie and I mostly used library books when we needed sensitive information. I wondered if the local library would yield anything helpful now, but then, if I was in court, might some boot-faced librarian slide quietly into the witness box declaring I’d borrowed a mass of tomes on murder and produce the volumes? Or, if I cannily didn’t borrow, might she remember me spending hours in the research section, unheard of in this digital age? My imagination, as ever, knew no bounds, which was perhaps why I normally kept it under control by writing. I had a vague instinct I should reach for a pen and scribble something now in an attempt at displacement therapy, but instead, I raised myself wearily out of bed and tottered to the bathroom. I felt utterly exhausted and the day hadn’t even begun.

After I’d brushed my teeth I leaned my hands on the porcelain basin and stared at my reflection in the mirror. What I couldn’t stand, I decided, was the not knowing. A neighbour of my parents, a farmer, had many years ago knocked someone over while driving away from a pub, late at night. A vagrant, who’d wandered out in front of his car. But the farmer had been drinking, so in panic, he’d driven on. The police had drawn a blank. Months later, he’d given himself up. And the publican confirmed he’d been drinking. He went to prison, but only served a year as he was such a model prisoner. He’s still farming now, down the road. Should I do that? I wondered. Give myself up? Go to the police? I stared into the mirror for clues. After a while I splashed my alarmingly pale face with cold water and went downstairs to make breakfast.