There was a silence. Then: ‘Shit. OK. Don’t do anything. And don’t go for their duty solicitor, if they offer. I’ll get you one. And I’ll come down.’

‘Thanks, darling,’ I whispered.

We rang off and I stared out at the drizzle on the windscreen. I wouldn’t ever, ever worry her. And I despised mothers who did. Who loaded their own problems on to their children. Melissa had talked to her children far too much. Lauren, her eldest, had been very weighed down: very affected. I’d kept Michael’s treatment of me from them as much as was humanly possible, always. Except of course it wasn’t always. Possible. Both had witnessed enough and Imo had once found me … anyway. I’d done my best. Because I didn’t want them to be damaged. But this was different. This required prompt, clever action and I needed Imo fast. I sat there. My mind was racing. Most of this was palpably not true. Michael giving chase was ludicrous. He’d have been catatonic. I was amazed he’d even got up from the sofa. The slightest shove would have had him over like a ninepin. But the intruder told it differently. Well he would, wouldn’t he, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davies. Lying through his teeth to stop them pinning a murder charge on him. Inventing a story about being pursued. And now I’d stupidly mentioned Ingrid. Who might not even have been in the equation. I shut my eyes. Imagined the detective now on the phone to the Met. Telling them to conduct another house to house, particularly concentrating on the houses at the back.