‘That’s electric. I can’t tell you what a time-saver it is for me. I’m writing my second novel. The first one I had to learn how to rewind the ribbon and it was a bastard to do. Now, brilliant! Anyway, I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

‘Spencer Gibbs, I’m with the Met Police.’ Spencer was still feeling uncomfortable, perhaps because Michael was so confident. The walls were lined with photographs of a wedding, a rowing team, Michael playing cricket in full whites, and numerous photographs of him with who Spencer presumed were his family. He’d surrounded himself with memories of when he was an able-bodied young man. Above his bed was a photograph of a very beautiful blonde girl that caught Spencer’s eye.

As if reading Spencer’s mind, Michael gave a soft laugh and said, ‘Would you like me to give you a who’s who? The girl who looks down on me every night was my fiancée, then you have my brothers and sisters, and of course you have me, before.’

‘How long have you been disabled?’ Spencer asked, feeling awkward.

‘Nearly twelve years. I was in Dubai on holiday and just felt unwell. I stayed put, saw out the holiday.’ He gestured to the blonde girl. ‘I was with my fiancée. By the time I got back home I had a raging fever and went into hospital. They thought it was sepsis; in fact it was, combined with meningitis. You fall unconscious and then . . . ’ Spencer waited as Michael shook his head. ‘You end up like this, but some are worse off. It took me many years before I began to live again, and I only found living bearable if I didn’t see my family or my fiancée. I had a lot of therapy. Now I do what I can to help kids like me, so I’m writing a lot of lectures and painting. But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to maintain normality in my head.’

‘You seem pretty normal to me.’

Michael smiled ruefully. ‘That’s because I’m putting on an act for you. But sometimes I can’t do it anymore. And sometimes I go into a really dark place. I used to go there much more often than I do now, because one of my therapists gave me a name: Mandy Pilkington. She gave me a part of my life back, something I had never believed possible. I suspect that is why you are here.’

Spencer realized what an intelligent man Michael was. He hadn’t broached the subject of Charles Foxley’s murder, or the fact they had been making inquiries at Mandy Pilkington’s, but somehow Michael had figured it out. Spencer began to suspect that Michael was enjoying second-guessing him.