Josh listened. He shrugged when I’d finished. ‘That eulogy was just some story your sister-in-law sold herself in her solitude and depression. Some victimhood balls she no doubt elaborated in her mind. Perhaps even came to believe. But I think her building up to something more, something accusatorial, is a figment of your own over-active imagination, if you don’t mind me saying so. Because trust me, if Ingrid and Amanda were cooking something up together, you’d have heard about it by now. The police would have carried out door-to-door enquiries with all the neighbours ages ago. If anything came up, if she did have a light on, then turned it off and was awake, watching you, she would have acted by now. Told the police, even. The mind is capable of playing cruel tricks on us, Lucy. If this is a new, recent worry, I think you’ve imagined it now that you know where Ingrid lives. I think you can relax.’

I gazed at him, speechless. ‘Oh, I will, I will,’ I breathed happily, when I could find my voice. ‘I mean – if you think I should—’

‘Look, Lucy,’ he interrupted, ‘I realize you’re taking my words very literally, here. But I’m not a detective. Not even a criminal barrister. I’m an academic. I’m absolutely no oracle on the subject. You should know that.’

I swallowed: looked down at my lap. ‘You lecture on it,’ I said quietly, wanting to believe.

‘Yes, but more on the psychology of the criminal mind. It’s your sister-in-law who fascinates me, actually. She’s just the sort of woman to stab a lover in the chest.’

I told him he could well be right, and gave him a brief résumé of her life, hers and Michael’s, but I kept it brief, because now that he’d assured me this was Amanda’s mind spiralling out of control and doing its damnedest to take me with it, I was actually keen to talk about something else. Anything else. I found the matter and manner of Michael’s death so horrific, that I either wanted to think about it ceaselessly on my own, or bury it in a box. It wasn’t a subject up for cosy discussion and neither was Michael. He was a monster. But he was my monster. And if I wasn’t going to jail for killing him or, as the more rational part of my mind told me, letting him die, I didn’t want to talk about it.

‘You’ve been away?’ I asked conversationally. I was unable to touch my chicken wrap. Instead I sipped my coffee.

He looked surprised that the subject was closed so abruptly. ‘Yes, back to France. All very last minute but I took the children skiing for a few days.’

‘Ah. Lovely.’