‘Look. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I would appreciate it if perhaps we could talk some more,’ I suggest, gauging Anton’s reaction – I have to get to the bottom of what’s going on here and to do that I need to diffuse the atmosphere between us. I need to make him trust me. He seems agitated below the surface, nervous energy running through him like a frothy river about to break its banks. I don’t believe a word he says. ‘It seems like there has been a big misunderstanding.’

‘Clearly.’

‘Why do you think Leah would have told me that she was afraid of you if it weren’t true?’

‘We have had a difficult relationship in the past. But we love each other. I love her and would do anything for her, I’d fight for her, I’d…’ He breaks off and rubs hard at his eyes and I wonder – would you kill her?

‘I know you’ve hurt her in the past.’

‘You clearly know nothing at all.’

‘I’m Leah’s therapist, as you know.’

‘Yes, well, she clearly lied to you. Like she’s lied to everybody. Her life, and her career, all of it, is based on a lie.’

‘So, you’re saying you never hurt her and she didn’t have a restraining order against you?’

‘Yes.’

He appears genuine, and despite instinctively not believing him, I can’t disregard the possibility that Leah really has gone back to him; abuse victims so often do, over and over, reenacting the only pattern they know. It would explain why Leah was so distressed last Friday and why she was so insistent on wanting to tell me something. I need to change strategy and get Anton to trust me with the truth; it seems like Leah hasn’t.

‘You seem nervous,’ I say, keeping my voice as even and calm as I can manage, trying to convey sympathy, watching his reactions carefully. ‘Or upset, perhaps? Do you think you could talk me through what’s happened?’

He thinks about it for a moment, then nods reluctantly and indicates a door leading off the hallway with a visibly trembling hand.

‘I’ll make coffee.’

I follow him through into a small, but beautifully furnished, living room. There are framed posters from Leah’s travels – Zanzibar, Havana, Cadiz, Marseille – hung above a shelf on which three curious little trees are lined up. Japanese bonsai trees, I realize. There is a tidy, open-plan kitchen in the corner, with ancient-looking wooden support beams painted gray partially separating the space from the living room. I would have guessed Leah enjoyed cooking, though she’s never actually mentioned it, but this is definitely the kitchen of someone who mostly eats out.