‘Yes, the Met took him into custody yesterday. He was breaking and entering a few streets away from your house and the tiny bit of DNA they have on your French windows matches his. Also, he’s now confessed. The Met have asked us to continue the investigation.’

‘Oh, right. That’s unusual, isn’t it? For a burglar to confess?’

‘Not if we’re accusing him of a more serious crime, namely manslaughter or murder.’

‘So he’s only confessed to the burglary?’

‘Correct.’

‘And did he—’

‘Mrs Palmer, would you mind if I asked the questions? This is our inquiry.’

‘Oh. No. Of course not.’

‘Would you like anyone to be present?’

I took a deep breath. ‘You mean a solicitor? No – I mean … I don’t need one, do I?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re not under caution. And therefore you can stop the interview at any time, if you feel you’d like to.’

I nodded, mute. Dug my nails into my hand beneath the table.

‘Mrs Palmer, our suspect maintains that when he ran from your house in Gresham Road, the deceased, your husband, gave chase down the garden. That he was perfectly unhurt when he left.’

I stared, horrified. ‘But – but that’s just not true! That’s a lie! When I came down, Michael was lying in a pool of blood by the coffee table!’

‘Quite so.’ He stared at an iPad before him and I wondered if this was being recorded.

‘What – so you mean—’ I was thrown; thinking aloud now. ‘You think Michael came back inside and then fell? But surely there’d be mud on his shoes – from the garden. Or – or you think – someone pushed him then? But who, that’s so unlikely!’ The detective stayed silent and I realized I was talking far too much. But then the silence grew and was appalling. Endless. ‘I mean – you’re surely not suggesting … you’re surely not just going to take the word of a common thief!’

The word ‘common’ hung in the air like something Leslie Phillips would say in a Carry On movie. In a posh accent. A larky comedy from the sixties, except this wasn’t a comedy. Not at all.

‘Your sister-in-law, Amanda Palmer, told my colleagues in London that relations between you and your husband were very strained.’

I inhaled sharply. ‘Yes. Yes, they were,’ I agreed in a whisper. What was he implying? This was worse. This wasn’t me being slow to call for help as Michael lay dying; this was me giving him a mighty shove. And they’d already spoken to Amanda. When? Recently or a long time ago? ‘But I would never have …’ I stopped. Licked my lips. ‘Relations are strained in many marriages.’

‘Indeed. And you said at the time, and just now, that when you came downstairs, you found him unconscious on the rug.’

‘Yes.’