‘I remember the fresh air hitting me as we walked outside, and I remember the crowd closing in. And somebody caught me as I fell.’

‘Me.’

She smiled and all of a sudden she was back in the room.

‘Thank you.’

Foster said nothing, but he saw warmth returning to Keller’s eyes.

‘Well, we know something,’ Foster said. ‘The guy who’s been stalking you was at Maria’s place at some point.’

Some of the new-found colour drained from her cheeks.

‘Oh my God! He must have been right there in front of me.’

Foster shook his head.

‘Maybe. Best not to dwell on it.’

‘He was there,’ Keller said firmly. ‘And Maria’s dead. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? I told you Maria wouldn’t kill herself.’

‘We have to let the police do their job on that,’ he said. ‘Ruth Cullen’s a good police officer. I worked with her for a few years. She never got a case wrong that I knew. So if there’s anything to find, she’ll find it.’

‘Shall we see what’s on the memory stick?’ Keller asked suddenly.

‘You need to sleep,’ Foster replied.

‘I need to practise. I’ve got a match tomorrow.’

‘All the more reason to sleep. I’ll drive you to the courts this afternoon. Do you have to reschedule your court booking?’

Keller felt the words Maria will do that forming on her lips, but of course Maria wouldn’t.

‘Don’t worry,’ Foster said. ‘I’ll sort it.’

Once Keller was asleep, and after he had rescheduled her practice time, he called Ruth Cullen.

‘It was a pretty grim scene,’ Cullen said. ‘We found Maria strung up in front of highlights of Kirsten Keller on a loop. I didn’t want to tell you in front of Kirsten.’

‘Thank you.’

Foster told her about the memory stick and the fact that Keller’s stalker must have been at the scene of Rosario’s death.

‘So what’s on it?’ Cullen asked him.

‘I don’t know yet,’ Foster said. ‘I’m about to watch it.’

Cullen told Foster she’d send an officer to collect the memory stick, and then hung up. Foster pulled open his laptop and inserted the stick. The video was of Keller losing the final in Paris; the soundtrack was of a guy laughing bitterly as she ran off the court in tears. Foster listened carefully. The guy was indoors, somewhere quiet. He didn’t sound especially old, but he didn’t sound young, either. It wasn’t much to go on. The content told Foster what he already knew: the guy was fixated on Keller.

Foster let Kirsten sleep until lunch, before driving her to the courts, where she smashed the ball harder than ever. She spent two hours lost in her game, perfecting every stroke in the glare of the sun and the gaze of the press.